บท 102: Catching Mother at Christmas
geronimo_appleby©
A little experimental piece from me for the Winter Holiday Contest. In this one Philip catches his mother masturbating. He's torn by what he sees, and fights against his feelings, but as Christmas approaches things develop in a nasty, dirty way.
I hope you enjoy the piece and, regardless of its final position in the contest, that you'll send feedback to let me know how it's received out there. I'm not bothered too much by the votes, I'm more interested in the impression the story leaves with you. Feedback can be by public comment, a PM, or an email. If you want a response to feedback then email is best -- but leave an address for me to write back to!
Just a note on the setting and some of the terms I've used -- in England in 1963 coal fires were still the norm, and some coalmen still used a horse and cart. A lorry is vernacular for a truck.
Anyway, as usual, I hope any errors that I've made don't detract from the overall.
I hope you enjoy my effort.
GA -- Melaka, Malaysia -- 20 November 2012
One
They blamed the weather, a dumping of snow in late December -- with a white Christmas now a certainty -- meant the lorries couldn't get over the Pennines; and because the trucks and their cargo couldn't negotiate the high Snake Pass crossing over the spine of England, Philip Masters got sent home from work early. When he arrived back at the house he lived in with his mother things would never be the same again.
"You might as well get on out of it," the lugubrious foreman had muttered, taking it as a personal affront that the snow and ice and treacherous driving conditions between Manchester and Sheffield made the delivery impossible. "Take an early knock off, lad."
And Philip hadn't needed telling twice. Muffled by a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, twenty years old, fair-haired and considered to be good-looking but painfully shy and awkward around women, with gloved hands deep in the pockets of his heavy donkey jacket, the soles of his boots squeaking against the snow underfoot, Philip trudged homeward.
He arrived at the narrow-fronted terrace, the house identical to rows and rows of others all huddled together collectively, as though their proximity would give some respite from the cold beneath the purple bruise of a pregnant sky in the back streets of the industrial city. Philip moved quickly through the brick archway of the small tunnel running between his house and the one adjoining -- a snicket or ginnel they'd called it as kids, access for the coalman to the bin in the tiny yard at the back of the house. He reached the back door, unlocked as usual, nobody bothered to lock doors, they didn't have anything worth stealing really, and once inside in the relative warmth, Philip pulled off his boots. He left his footwear to bleed melted snow onto the lino of the vestibule between the back door and the kitchen, the back-space that his mother used as a store for vegetables, an assortment of coats on a line of hooks fixed to the wall, Philip's boots, and other odds and sods that had no other place to call home in the confines of the small house.
In his socks, after hanging his donkey jacket on a hook and putting his boots neatly to the left of the vegetable rack -- his mum went spare if her left the "great clod-hopping things" lying about, berating him like an irate wife whose errant husband had spent the wage in the pub or lost it on the horses -- Philip walked quietly through the kitchen. Relieved to be indoors after the cold outside he walked in his socks as silent as a burglar along the narrow hallway to the living room; the parlour as his mother insisted. The room looked cosy with its small tree brightening the weary, worn out décor. Dangling baubles winked like jewels in the cosy firelight from the glowing coals in the grate. Christmas Eve was two days away, and Philip had been looking forward to a couple of days off work.
He hadn't meant to move so quietly, not on purpose, but being quiet had become a habit since he'd started working at the warehouse. He left home so early in the morning that out of consideration to his mum he went about his morning routine as silently as possible.
Even though it was now the afternoon he shouldn't have been home at that time of day, not so early, but it was because of the snow, and because of the snow he'd been given an early bath, which meant, when he walked into the warm parlour, he saw her.
She obviously hadn't been expecting him.
***
Beverly Masters loved sex. It wasn't something she told anyone about, it might be 1963, an enlightened age, but her husband buggering off with that tart from the foundry, a little scrubber with loose legs and a tight pair of firm young tits had still caused a flurry of gossip and sideways glances along the terrace, and the odd snicker or two, so if anyone knew of her liking for cock things could really get uncomfortable. And there was Philip to consider, her son, a good lad, out working, bringing in a wage, he'd been fourteen when his dad had run off, an awkward age for anybody, but his dad's abrupt departure had affected Philip badly. Already a shy boy, he really went into his shell, so much so that even now, six years later, the young man blushed and stammered around girls. He was so much better than he was, but at twenty Beverly hoped Philip would grow out of it soon. Time he found himself a nice girlfriend.
Philip was nothing like his mother in that regard, Beverly attracted the men, even at forty-two she had them sniffing and chasing after her. She never went with any of them, none of the locals; she didn't want a reputation as a slut. More for Philip's sake than her own.
But she craved cock, thought about it all the time, daydreamed about sizes and shapes and how good they felt in her hand and between her legs. Beverly loved to see them grow thicker and longer as they stiffened up, the man behind it hungry for her. Her penchant was for a brutal looking penis, something thick and gnarled that rubbed her insides and got her all hot and bothered. She loved to watch them come too, spitting spunk from the single eye, flinging jizm about.
Not long ago Beverly had enjoyed a hot affair with, of all people, the coalman. She'd seduced him two summers ago as he'd carried a bag of coal from the horse drawn cart along the ginnel, offering him a beer and a good long look at her cleavage, What a fuck that had been, the first one, him with his bludgeon of a cock, incongruously pink and clean compared to his coal-blackened hands and smudged face. She'd bent over the kitchen table and offered her cunt to him after wanking and sucking him to iron-hard tumescence. He'd left her gasping and filthy with black handprints all over her arse while spunk slid down her legs after a brief but frenzied fuck.
"Got to get back and move the cart along," he'd said as he tucked his great organ away and buttoned his flies.
Despite it being mid-summer, gasping with heat and exertion, Beverly had panted, "I'll need another bag next week." And the man had grinned, teeth pearlescent in his grimy face, and left Beverly half dressed, her knickers on the flagstone floor, her skirt up round her waist, tits and fanny sore from where he'd mauled her and fucked into her hard and fast. But oh, she was so fucking satisfied.
He'd come again the following week. This time he stayed longer after leaving the horse and cart at a mate's yard away from prying eyes and sharp, gossiping tongues. Beverly loved it, the rough fucking as his huge, grimy hands pawed at her skin. The girth of him split her open, the broad mushroom dome, pliant yet unyielding, relentlessly probing deeper and deeper forcing her apart while the beautiful ridges and veins in his gnarled length rubbed her to climax after climax.
When he grunted a warning that his own surge was imminent, Beverly, with her thighs juddering at the intensity or her orgasms, pushed him away from where his fingers gripped her hips and he fucked into her from behind.
"On my tits!" she'd cried, "spunk on my tits." She squatted and offered her breasts to him as he tugged at his length.
Grimacing, desperate for the sublime release, the rough and begrimed man gave a huge, bull like bellow and poured a viscous rain of semen onto Beverly's big breasts.
"You're a dirty lass," the groaned. "I've never fucked anyone as mucky as you. You love it, eh?"
Beverly's response had been to smirk up at him as she squatted on her kitchen floor. She smeared his outpouring over the soft flesh of her breasts with one hand and reached for his oozing cock with the other. "You love it too," she murmured before wrapping her lips around him. The woman sucked and slurped at the man's diminishing erection. Her cheeks dipped to concavity as she cleaned all residue of their coupling from his cock.
And it had gone on from there, he a regular and welcome visitor who never took his boots off or got beyond the kitchen.
The end came when the coalman's son joined the man on his rounds, the boy's presence curtailing his father's extra-marital activities and, by default, denying Beverly her weekly ration of stiff penis.
Beverly took to masturbating to cool the fires and salve the itch between her legs. As the colder months came on she found being naked in her bedroom too uncomfortable without a fire to warm her exposed flesh, and since she couldn't afford the luxury of a fire in the bedroom she was forced by economic necessity to use the parlour room downstairs.
At first Beverly was as nervous as a cat in Battersea dogs' home as she settled on the settee with her skirt around her hips. Her ears were tuned to every creak of the terraced house's old bones, and each sound heralded a flurry of libs as the woman hurriedly rearranged her clothing and, red-faced and guilty looking, she scrambled to her feet, thinking her son was about to walk in a catch her with her fingers swirling around her hot and swollen sex.
As the days and weeks went on Beverly relaxed and began to ignore the usual sounds the innocent walls and floors made; she recognised that the noises were just the house grumbling about the change in the weather, rheumatoid joints contracting as the days grew colder.
Philip would be at work until five every weekday, and with the half-hour walk home there was little danger of him ever catching her in flagrante delicto with her skirt bunched around her waist and her cunt snarling around her fingers.
Beverly took to masturbating regularly at two in the afternoon. She would actually start the day with a little diddle under the sheets in her bed, but to find her best, most intense orgasms, she needed freedom to writhe and move about. The bedsheet and heavy blankets were too restrictive, hence the fire in the grate in the parlour and her legs akimbo on the settee.
One afternoon, as was now her habit, Beverly basked in the warmth of the fire in her usual position. The coals glowed brightly and sent heat radiating out into the room. The Christmas tree was up, only a small one otherwise the tiny room would be filled with its prickly branches and dangling ornaments, but the fresh tang of pine filled the room.
On Christmas morning there would be two presents under the tree, one for her from her son, and another parcel for Philip in a reciprocal gesture of giving. Nothing fancy, they didn't have the money for much extravagance, but it would be a pleasant day anyway, first the exchange of gifts in the morning followed by a nice turkey dinner and wine, beer for Philip, in the afternoon.
That afternoon however, with Christmas Day still two days into the future, Beverly was on the settee, the middle finger of one hand rubbing at her taut clitoris while she used the stiff fingers of her free hand to finger-fuck her scarlet opening. As she masturbated Beverly writhed and groaned, picturing herself as she'd been during the summer, bent over the kitchen table while the coalman fucked her with his huge, gnarled knob.
"Stick it in me," the woman gabbled, urging her fantasy lover on. "Fuck me with that big cock. I'm going to come. Fuck ... I'm going to come on it. It's big ... so fucking big ..."
She didn't hear the back door open and close, or perhaps she heard a slight shuffling sound as Philip took off his coat and boots but chose to ignore it, mistakenly thinking she'd never be caught out, not at this time of day. And because her son moved so quietly she didn't hear his transit from the kitchen to the parlour door. It wasn't until, as she came like a steam train, grunting and cursing while her fingers squelched inside her gooey twat that she opened her eyes and saw him, her son, standing there in the doorway, his eyes wide with shock.
***
Philip couldn't harness a single coherent thought. What he saw was impossible, it couldn't be happening. He stared at the scene, his jaw slack and his body numb as his brain refused point blank to register the truth of what his eyes were telling him. Seconds felt like minutes as, still ignorant to his presence, the woman sprawled so inelegantly on the settee kept on babbling obscenities as her body squirmed against the cushions and her limbs twitched. Philip watched his mother's thighs judder under the intensity of her climax, the muscles convulsing while she stuffed three fingers into her body and mauled at her exposed breasts.
He stared, still gape-mouthed and bug-eyed, at his mother's tits as she pawed roughly at her own flesh. Beverly had unbuttoned her blouse and hauled her boobs free of her bra when the urge had come over her earlier, and Philip found himself mesmerised by the pale, heavy orbs. Philip experienced a deep-seated and instinctive sexual surge at what he saw. The fact that it was his own mother made no difference; he hadn't registered that this was the woman who had birthed him, given him life. His mind refused to accept the facts; therefore his initial reaction was breath-taking sexual arousal. Philip didn't realise he was turned on, that his cock was stiff and huge, he wouldn't recall that until later, not until he'd had time to recover and analyse his impressions.
Then Beverly opened her eyes.
The moment ballooned, with both mother and son unable to grasp the reality. Even as her eyes widened and her pupils dilated in shock, Beverly's body continued to react to the impulses her orgasm continued to generate.
"Oh no," the woman blurted, as, even then, she winced and moaned and her hand squeezed her breast one final time. "No," she repeated. Like her son, she couldn't believe the reality of her situation. "No," she said a third time."
His mother's voice, like a hypnotist's snapping fingers, broke Philip's trance. He blinked quickly and swallowed heavily. Backing out of the room he began to babble. "Mum ... Oh. Mum ... I ..."
He had to get away. He couldn't stay here and see her like that. This was his mother! Oh God, he'd caught her wanking. Already, as the initial shock wore off, he felt the mortification overwhelm him. Myriad thoughts went through his mind: how could he face her ever again? This was worse than if she'd walked in and found him with his cock in his fist. Their lives would never be the same. This would always be there between them.
Every instinct now screamed at Philip to turn around and take to his heels, to get out of the house and let the shock of the freezing day outside numb his tortured mind. He had to get away, get clear of this room, the house, and most of all away from his mother. He needed to get the sight of her out of his head; he couldn't stand to see her sprawled like that with her legs open and her breasts rolling on her chest.
Why then couldn't he take his eyes off her?
"I didn't mean to walk in like that ..." Philip finished weakly.
More seconds past as Beverly lay on the settee and stared at her son. She knew she should move, that decency demanded that she cover herself, but, in those few moments that followed Philip's unexpected appearance, when she saw ... something in his eyes, Beverly couldn't help but lie there and flaunt herself.
Her son's expression, albeit one of total disbelief and shock, held a hint of some indefinable emotion that reached out and touched Beverly on a level she couldn't understand. And for a reason she couldn't articulate, without even fully realising that she did so, Beverly allowed her legs to fall apart, a boneless, lewd action that revealed the scarlet slit of her sex to her son's stare.
Then common sense and morality slapped her face and Beverly finally realised the truth of her situation. "Bloody hell" she cried. "Philip! No ... But ... What are you doing here?" The woman's thighs clamped together as she jack-knifed upright and her fingers scrabbled to draw her blouse together across her front. "This isn't happening."
***
Beverly waited for her son's return. She sat with her elbows resting on the kitchen table, the scene of her debauched affair from the summer months that now seemed so long ago. While she waited she smoked and sipped at the gin she'd poured following Philip's headlong dash from the house. He had to come back soon, Beverly mused, he'd left with such frenzied urgency that he forgot to take his coat, and it was freezing outside. Not that she had much of a clue about what she was going to say to him, but one thing she knew for certain, that they had to talk through what had happened. No matter how embarrassing or painful that might be, they had to talk it through, otherwise, Beverly knew, they would never be able to look each other in the eye again. And since it was just the two of them living together, and because of her son's innate shyness, which was close on being a disability in its own right, Beverly felt that they had to clear the air before any more damage got done.
Half an hour later and Beverly's pulse quickened when she heard the scrape of the back door opening. She rose to her feet and the backs of her knees pushed against the wooden seat of the chair. Beverly heard the double thud of Philip's boots on the flagged floor of the back-space. She wrung her hands as a leaden brick of agitation dropped into the pit of her stomach.
Philip halted when he saw his mother waiting for him. Despite the cold that gnawed his very bones he saw the anxiety in her pained expression. For a moment, when he looked into the deep, green pools of his mother' eyes, Philip felt a surge of love swell in his throat. This was the woman who had cared for him all his life, the one constant thing in his existence. Then, as he shivered in the doorway, with the draught whistling under the outside door, Philip recalled the vivid images of his mother in the parlour. His eyes slid away from Beverly's face.
"Go into the parlour, Philip," Beverly said gently. "I'll bring you in a nice cup of tea." She nodded towards the hallway and the warm room beyond. "Go on," she insisted, "sit by the fire and get warmed through." Easing the chair backwards, Beverly stepped around the table and moved to take hold of the kettle and fill it with water. "I said, in the parlour, Philip," she called when, from the corner of her eye, she saw her son sidling towards the stairs. "We've some things to discuss."
Philip's body tensed as he considered defying his mother's instructions. He stood there for a moment with his hand on the banister, one foot on the first riser. Then, heaving a huge sigh, knowing it would be useless to ignore her, she would only follow him upstairs to his bedroom where he'd planned to hide, his hand left the banister and he shuffled into the parlour.
"Drink this," Beverly ordered as she proffered a steaming mug of sweetened tea to her son. She busied herself with logs and the coal scuttle, avoiding Philip's eye while she built up the fire.
Philip blew across the meniscus of the scalding brew as he watched his mother work. When the flames leapt and snapped in the grate Beverly left the room. When she returned she brought with her a fresh gin and a packet of cigarettes.
"Philip," she said seriously after lighting up. "We have to talk about what happened." Ignoring her son's wince, she continued. "If we don't get it out things will just fester. The awkwardness between us will grow and grow." Beverly drew heavily on the cigarette while Philip stared into the dancing flames. "I know it's embarrassing, Philip," she snapped, frustrated by her son's silence and refusal to acknowledge her. "But we have to clear the air."
Philip sipped at the tea before turning to face his mother. Like her son a few moments earlier, Beverly experienced a swelling of emotion in her chest. She loved him dearly, felt for him acutely, knowing his excruciating shyness would be making this situation doubly difficult to deal with.
"Oh Mum," the young man sighed.
Tears pricked Beverly's eyes at the forlorn words and the tortured face of her own flesh and blood. She sucked at the cigarette vehemently, blowing smoke to the ceiling before she took a deep draught of gin. Surprised at the suddenly empty glass, she stood up and, sniffing with emotion and the harsh spirit that burned her throat, Beverly said, "I'm just going for a top up." She regarded her son and steeled her resolve, adding, "And then we're going to talk, Philip."
"Bring me one too, Mum," Philip said as he nodded his head at the empty glass in his mother's hand. "I could use one."
Surprised at Philip's choice, he was usually a beer man, and even then it was only the odd tipple -- like at Christmas which was now so close. Nevertheless, when she returned to the parlour Beverly carried two glasses.
Philip carefully placed the half finished mug of tea onto the carpet and took the gin from his mother's hand.
"I'm sorry you saw what you did, Philip," Beverly began. "It must be a ... a shock." One hand fluttered in the air as she explained her surprise. "It was to me. I mean I'm mortified by the fact that you caught me doing that, but I have to try to put things right between us."
"I really don't want to do this, Mum," Philip mumbled. He still refused to look at Beverly directly, preferring instead to watch the snapping flames rather than look at Beverly's face.
In part, some of Philip's discomfiture -- a large helping of the pie in fact -- came from his own reaction to seeing his mother's body displayed as it had been. As he'd walked coatless through the warren of narrow, snow-covered streets, through the freezing cold and biting winds, he'd had a few minutes to recognise that, as well as being shocked, he'd actually experienced a surge of arousal when he'd seen his mother's face twisted into that mask of pure, undiluted lust. In the moments before Beverly had opened her eyes, as Philip stared at her, he'd seen her expression of wanton desire. He recalled the sight of her fingers twisting urgently between her labia as she sought the glorious release of her orgasm. He remembered also the sound of her hand squelching around her cunt, and the obscene language she'd used to coax herself along the road towards that climax. And, when her orgasm had ripped through her body and his mother had writhed and squirmed against the settee, when he'd seen her thighs twitching, the muscles dancing in that involuntary paroxysm, Philip had been dimly aware of his cock stiffening in his trousers.
He couldn't deny that he'd wanted his own mother in a sexual way. And he was deeply disturbed by the feelings. As Beverly talked on, oblivious to the real cause of Philip's torment, Philip heard her trying to explain about how she had feelings and urges and, despite being his mother, still had a sexual appetite.
"It's been difficult for me, Philip," Beverly said quietly. She too, following her son's lead, spoke into the fire. As though the flames would consume her words and the relationship between mother and son would, like the phoenix, rise again from the ashes.
She couldn't possibly know it, nobody could foresee the future that lay in store for Beverly and her son, but the coming days would see a dramatic and irrevocable shift between the pair. Not in the way Beverly imagined, for never in her wildest fantasies could she picture what was to come by Christmas morning. How she and Philip would be altered forever.
"It's natural," Beverly continued. "I know you do it too, Philip," she added in a near whisper. "I've seen the mucky magazine you've got in your bedroom." She held up a restraining hand, palm outward as she closed her eyes to her son's stiffening body and opening mouth. "I'm not judging or censoring you, darling," she rushed. "All I'm trying to do is explain that what you saw is normal behaviour." Beverly's tone softened as she looked into her son's anguished face. "We all do it, Philip. It's nothing to be ashamed of." She sipped at the gin and looked at Philip over the rim of the glass. "Please don't let this alter the way we are, Son."
The knowledge that his mother had found his magazine caused Philip yet further anguish. Somehow, her knowing that he looked at the pictures of naked women was more embarrassing than seeing her in the masturbatory act.
He groaned and lifted a hand to his forehead. Eventually, with a deep sigh, he capitulated. His body deflated as he sank back into the chair. "All right, Mum," he sighed again as the fight left him. "I just need a little time to get used to it." Philip swallowed the gin and grimaced at the unfamiliar taste. He leaned forward and set the empty glass on the carpet near the mug. "You know I'm not good with ..." He shrugged and gestured ineffectually with his hands. "I'm not very good at dealing with private things."
"Oh, Philip," Beverly sighed. She looked at her son and felt so sorry for him. He looked as though he had the weight of the world resting on his shoulders as he sat in the worn armchair, his elbows resting on his knees while he massaged his forehead with one hand. "Let me get you a beer, darling. I got some in for Christmas." Beverly laughed, a short, brittle sound, cold and fragile as ice. Christmas, what kind of holiday could they expect now? "But I suppose you could use a beer at the moment."
Seconds later, while Philip tilted the bottle to his lips, Beverly, with a fresh gin and a newly lit cigarette settled once again onto the settee. The couple talked until the fire once more faded to glowing coals in the grate. Beverly explained to her son as best she could about how she felt, about the need for physical release.
Several bottles of beer later and Philip nodded. "I understand, Mum. Really I do." And he actually found, to his surprise, that he did understand, that the talking made him feel so much better. He turned his burning face away and mumbled, "And you're right. We all do it. That's why I keep that magazine. I like looking at the pictures and ..." Philip left the rest unsaid, he'd come a long way in the last hour or two but enough was enough. The beer had helped to ease his inhibitions and loosen his tongue, but he wasn't affected by the alcohol so much that he didn't know when to stop talking.
Realising her son had said all he was going to say, and more than a little embarrassed herself at his surprisingly candid revelations, Beverly stood and held out her arms. "I'm glad we got it all out in the open, Philip," she smiled. "Now give me a hug. It's time I was in the kitchen getting us some tea made. You must be starving."
With his mother in his arms, Philip was shocked to find his body responding to her physically. The images flooded back into his head. In his mind he saw her again, as he'd stumbled upon her that afternoon, skirt bunched at her waist, big tits trembling while her face creased and she panted and swore and fingered herself.
Philip's cock stiffened quickly as a surge of desire burst through his senses. "You're beautiful, Mum," he mumbled into her thick, dark hair. His lips nuzzled at her neck as he squeezed her tighter to his body. "So beautiful."
Beverly eased herself out of her son's arms. She stared at him for long seconds, confused at the way he'd held her and the words that had spilled from his lips with such meaning. The look in his eyes reminded her, with a jolt, of the moments immediately after she'd opened her eyes and seen him standing in the doorway looking at her. His expression seemed somehow hungry, more like the heated and longing look of a lover.
Her face reddened when she remembered how, rather than gasp with shock and scramble for modesty, her first act had been to flaunt herself to his burning eyes. Beverly had wanted him to see her gaping sex; she'd just let her legs fall open and had exhibited herself in the lewdest way. And the act had thrilled her, there was no denying it, the look on his face, the desire she'd seen in his eyes had sent a frisson of arousal through her own body. As much as the knowledge appalled her, Beverly couldn't quite quell the flicker of that same arousal now.
"I'll go and make us something to eat," she stammered, shocked at her body's reaction. Taking a backward step she held her son's stare for another few seconds. "You really must be starving," Beverly muttered as she finally wrenched her eyes away from Philip's face.
When his mother had all but run from the room Philip collapsed back into his seat. He looked down at the bulge in his trousers, a tenting of the material caused by his stiff cock -- an erection that had been brought about by his desire for his own mother.
"Jesus," Philip muttered. He picked up the beer bottle and swigged at it, wondering, despite their frank conversation, if things between him and his mother would ever be normal again.
Two
Philip woke to the cold and dark of another working day. He went through his usual morning routine, shivering in the tiny bathroom until his cold water toilette was complete. After loading the first wagons of the day he breakfasted at the café, all steamy windows and boisterous male bonhomie while lorry drivers and other working men bantered with the plump, pink-cheeked girl behind the serving counter. He ignored the hubbub all around as he sipped his tea, lost in his own little bubble of distraction.
What were these feelings he'd suddenly developed for his mother? More to the point, how did he rid himself of them? It was so wrong to feel this way, to be so strongly drawn in a sexual way to his own mum. In the vaporous humidity of the café, wreathed in steam and cigarette smoke, Philip felt his face burning as he recalled how beneath a den of bedding the night before he'd tugged at his cock and recalled the sight of his mother sprawled on the settee with her fingers mushing between her legs.
The shame had rushed in even as the semen spurted from the eye of his cock, almost as though filling the vacuum created by the hot stuff jetting from his body. Sleep had been elusive, his thoughts filled with wild and sordid fantasies of his mother creeping across the landing and, with words of her own desire sweet from her lips, her sliding into bed next to him to take the engorged length of his cock in her fist.
Philip sighed and drained the last of his tea and rubbed gritty eyes with the heel of his hand as he left the café, the bell jangling to signal his departure. He worked quietly, diligent and efficient as usual until, like the previous day, the foreman appeared and told him that the trucks still couldn't manage the climb over the Pennines and that he might as well call it a day.
Philip hurried home, his mind filled with possibilities that swelled the pit of his stomach with anxious hope. Could it be that his mother would be in the same indelicate position as yesterday? His mother may have gotten into the habit of masturbating at a particular time of day. It could be that she was there right now, in the parlour, all bare-limbed and wide-legged, her big tits trembling and swaying as she finger-fucked herself to a climax.
When he arrived home he paused at the back door, breathing deeply to calm himself, breath smoking in the grey twilight of the winter afternoon. He eased the door handle down, determined to be as silent as a burglar. Sliding his boots off after untying the laces on the doorstep, Philip left them in the backspace and moved quietly through the adjoining door into the kitchen. The warmth of the stove and the doughy scent of baking enveloped him in a welcome embrace; his mother must be in the middle of Christmas preparations. His heart leaped into his throat when he realised that he detected no sign of his mother's presence -- no noise from upstairs, she obviously wasn't in the kitchen, and she wouldn't be outdoors, not with the oven on.
Could she be in the parlour? Oh God, it was too much to hope for. With his heart hammering in his chest Philip felt his trembling legs might give way at any second as he crept along the hall. He struggled to contain the bellows of his lungs, certain that if his mother was in the parlour his breathing, which sounded to him as loud as a steam train, would alert her to his presence.
Closer and closer he inched forward until ...
There she was, just the same as yesterday, sprawled on the settee as she rubbed urgently at her clitoris.
He hadn't really expected to find her like this again; it had just been a wild hope that he hadn't expected to be fulfilled. But here she was fingers busy, eyes closed as she panted and writhed, lost in her own masturbatory fantasy.
Philip supressed a moan and, with his eyes fixed upon his mother's exposed flesh, he unbuttoned his files and hauled forth the rigid tumescence.
He stroked himself slowly, daring only to peer around the door jamb, still fearful of discovery. The long talk and clearing of the air of the previous day had been one thing, the honesty his mother had shared with him meant that they both understood and accepted that each of them had physical desires and needs, but Philip was pretty certain that spying on his mother while he wanked his cock wasn't exactly going to be met with a cheery smile and a shrug of the shoulders.
It felt so good to stand there and slide his fist along his length as he watched his mother enjoying herself. Philip committed her to memory, each curve and soft bulge of her flesh stored away to be used later, at night under the tented bedcovers.
The groan escaped without him even realising he'd made a sound. Of course, his mother's eyes snapped open instantly.
***
Beverly woke up full of the joys despite the cold in her bedroom. The prospect of Christmas and the heart to heart she'd shared with her son filled her heart. There was just the one thing that concerned her as she went about the necessary chore of mending the fire in the parlour, and that was the matter of the way Philip had held her and nuzzled her neck. There was something ... odd about it, something not quite right. Whenever Beverly called that moment to mind she dismissed it immediately, also conveniently forgetting how she'd let her son stare at her hot and scarlet cunt for a few moments when she'd first realised he was there in the doorway watching her.
It was all so confused anyway, and Beverly was sure that she hadn't really allowed Philip to look at her. Surely it had been something to do with the shock of the moment, of finding him staring all slack-jawed and glazed-eyed. He wasn't meant to be home at that time and had caught her by surprise, totally unguarded. No, she was sure, absolutely certain she hadn't really just laid there and let him take a good, long look. She'd just been immobile with surprise -- that had to be it.
Nevertheless, as she kneaded dough in the kitchen, with the stove warming her, Beverly couldn't quite deny the tickling between her legs.
Not that itch had anything to do with Philip. No, the heat inside her had nothing to with her son at all.
Beverly had been determined to ignore the need. She managed to last until two, her habitual time for some self-love.
"A couple of minutes," she muttered to herself as she settled onto the settee. "Just a few minutes."
A flutter of anticipation tickled Beverly's stomach when she lifted her skirt around her hips. She peeled her underwear off and splayed her already gooey labia with her fingertips. Looking down at her opening, slick and hot amid the matted bush of her dark pubic hair, Beverly chewed her bottom lip and savoured the delightful moment just before her forefinger slid over her clitoris.
"God," she gasped, swallowing heavily. "Yes. Oh, that feels so good."
Sighing deeply, Beverly sank deeper into the seat's familiar embrace. Her buttocks slid over the cushion as she wriggled and squirmed, her forefinger describing languid circles around and over her clitoris. She groaned and opened her legs wider, calling to mind memories of her former lover and the robust fucking she'd experienced in his coal-begrimed hands.
When the pictures in her mind grew more sordid her fingers began to move with more urgency. Beverly used two stiff digits to finger-fuck her opening while, at the same time, she rubbed harder and harder at the taut nub at the cleft of her sex.
Her body tensed, limbs going rigid as the first waves of pleasure began their irrevocable tidal surge. Recognising the precursor to her climax Beverly began to pant and gasp, intermittently mumbling an expletive to demonstrate vocally how intense her feelings were. She loved the dirty talk, revelled in the dirtiness of it. "Fuck," she mumbled, "my cunt's so fucking hungry. I'd love a big cock to suck before it batters my twat."
The woman could scent her own arousal wafting from between her legs. The musk of her desire reminded her of the coalman's semen that she let dry on her skin after he'd covered her breasts with his outpouring. Leaving the jizm to cool and dry on her flesh, Beverly had kept the smell of him on her body for the rest of the afternoon following his visit, only washing herself clean of the crusty residue just before her son was due home.
The musk of her own body pushed Beverly closer and closer to the caldera, and it was just as she teetered on the edge, seconds before she fell into the roiling, molten pit of her climax that Beverly heard the groan.
Her eyes snapped open and, as her orgasm reached up and pulled her into the bubbling depths, Beverly saw her son.
She had a moment in which to think, Not again, and then the sensations gripped her consciousness.
Beverly knew Philip watched her; she even knew, in a vague and foggy way, that as he watched her he was also pulling at himself. She'd seen the length of him in his fist, had even managed to notice in the second before her climax took her that he was huge -- her son's cock was bigger than the coalman's sizeable offering.
"I'm coming," Beverly groaned. And there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Even if she could stem the tide, the great rush of the tsunami wave of ecstasy, Beverly knew that she would still have laid there, legs wide, with her pussy gaping and bubbling and simply let her son watch.
Philip recognised, as he watched and masturbated, on some instinctive level he knew that what he was doing was wrong. He just couldn't help himself. Seeing his mother like that again overwhelmed him. And when she opened her eyes and saw him, and then just continued fingering her squelching cunt, letting him feast his eyes as he tugged at himself, it all became too much. He heard the words drop from his mother's lips -- she was coming right in front of him. She knew he was there; she'd opened her eyes and seen him. In fact, even as she writhed and trembled and the cords in her neck stood out like knife edges, her eyes were open. His mother came right in front of his staring eyes and watched him watching her.
Philip's eyes caught his mother's stare and, as the woman sighed and gasped, he grunted and let the surge erupt from the eye of his cock.
Beverly cried out when she saw the viscous fluid squirt from her son's cock. "My darling boy!" she called. "Look at you."
"Mum," Philip managed to grunt. "I ..." But he couldn't speak, the sensation of jetting spunk curtailed his ability to articulate anything other than a low, guttural moan. Semen pulsed from him, squirt after squirt of the stuff that rained down onto the worn carpet and dribbled over his hand and wrist.
All the time his seed pumped from his pulsing cock Philip kept his gaze locked on his mother's face. He saw her expression twist from surprise at his appearance into a mask of sensual delight. His mother grimaced as though in pain while she came and came, her fingers swirling between her legs. Beverly stared back at her son, her eyes heavy-lidded and glazed with lust, and Philip thought that she'd never looked more beautiful. At that moment, with both of them caught in the heat of their respective orgasms, their emotions melded, both of them poised on the brink incest.
For her part Beverly craved her son's long penis. Philip's cock was perfect -- big and thick and gnarled -- and she could see herself riding it. In her mind's eye Beverly imagined her cunt opening as her son held himself upright and she lowered herself onto him. She could see herself shamelessly offering her teats to him, holding her breasts in her palms as she invited her own son to suck her nipples. Her orgasm rolled on and on, apparently without end while Beverly held Philip's eyes with her own intense gaze. She watched his face as he came, glancing briefly at the cascade of semen pouring out of her son before, while her body thrilled at the sight of his outpouring, Beverly concentrated on reading his expression.
Beverly saw the wanting in Philip's face writ large as he stared back at her.
Eventually the fire burning between them cooled. Mother and son continued to gaze at each other, neither daring to move, both not quite able to believe what had just occurred.
Finally, blinking and gasping, panting for breath, Philip gurgled a single word. "Mum?" he said in a voice strangled with emotion.
With her exposed breasts trembling on her heaving chest, while she lay sprawled and indecently exposed, Beverly managed to sigh: "Philip. My darling boy ..."
"No, Mum," Philip gasped. "What have we done?" Beverly saw the anguish behind her son's eyes in the moment before, as he tucked his dribbling cock into his trousers, Philip fled the room.
***
Beverly's fingers scrabbled at the seat beneath her as she heaved herself upright and, with her skirt falling to its normal decent level at her knees, she rushed in her son's wake. She found him in the kitchen, sitting with his elbows on the table, head in his hands.
Seeing him there Beverly paused, her next move uncertain. A strong and undeniable maternal urge to go to her son and hold him moved Beverly's feet until she stood next to the young man.
His mother's touch on his shoulder brought a groan of anguish from Philip.
"Philip?" Beverly whispered.
"I came home hoping I'd find you doing it again, Mum," Philip confessed, his head bowed towards the table top. "I wanted to see you doing it. When I saw you yesterday I thought you were so beautiful. I couldn't help myself, Mum; I got an early finish again because the lorries can't get in, and I hurried home wanting, hoping to catch you again. And when I saw you," Philip muttered, "you looked so lovely, so ... sexy, that I couldn't stop myself from touching myself. I had to ... to ... you know."
"I know, darling. I saw. And when I saw you standing there ... holding your lovely penis ..."
To hear his mother speaking directly about his cock sent a thrill of desire through Philip. Despite his intense climax of only moments earlier, he felt the stir inside his trousers.
Beverly sighed and rubbed the palm of her hand over her son's back. She swallowed hard and continued. "I'm just saying that I understand, Philip. We both got caught in the heat of the moment. I understand, darling, I really do. I know what you felt when you saw me, I felt it too. When I saw the look on your face, and when I saw how big you are ..." Beverly sighed again. "Oh, Philip, when I saw your big cock I wanted it." Her face burned with shame and embarrassment as she confessed her disturbing carnal desires to her son. But Beverly, determined to make Philip understand he wasn't to blame for what happened between them, ploughed on regardless. "It's understandable, Philip. It might be wrong in some people's eyes, my baby, and who knows, perhaps they're right, maybe we've done wrong ... I'm sure I don't know. But we've done it, and both of us have to take responsibility. But nobody needs to know, Philip. Why should they? It's something that's happened between us; I don't quite know what's happened, how we got here, it's all very confusing."
And Philip agreed, his mother had it right on that score, it was confusing in extremis. Tortured by what he'd done, the level to which he'd sunk, appalled at the way he'd actively sought his mother out, hoping she'd be half naked and masturbating, Philip swivelled his face to look at her, determined that the next words from his lips would be to recant his actions, to vow that never again would he allow himself the weakness -- as he saw it -- of his voyeurism. What had passed between them had been a momentary aberration that couldn't ever be repeated. It was wrong, so very wrong to look upon his own mother's flesh in that way. It was a sin to desire her as he did, and Philip, resolute in his decision to put this episode behind them forever, swivelled to face Beverly.
But, when he turned to look at his mother, Philip found himself confronted by her bare breasts.
Beverly had, in her headlong rush to follow Philip, forgotten to cover herself; her breasts. Those icons of feminine beauty that so fascinated a man's eye, big and heavy and round, tipped with pink teats so long and thick hung suspended only a few inches from Philip's face.
His resolve dissolved and Philip, with a groan of desire that came from some primordial, instinctive place within him, reached up slowly and cupped Beverly's weight in his palms.
"Beautiful," he sighed before taking a nipple into his mouth.
Beverly gasped. "My darling," she breathed, stroking her son's head.
They joined together on the settee. Beverly lay back and opened her legs to her son. Philip, with his underwear and trousers around his shins since his desire had been too hot, too urgent to remove his clothing, clambered onto the seat between his mother's thighs.
Beverly looked into her son's eyes and reached between their bodies. Taking the length of him, iron-hard and so thick in her fist, she held the bulb of the cock-head at her opening. "Are you sure?" she murmured, looking into Philip's eyes.
Philip replied with a jerk of his hips so the blunt dome nudged Beverly's body.
"Put it in," Beverly whispered.
When she felt her body splitting, opening up to accept the pulsing length of her son, Beverly arched her back and succumbed to the living entity that filled her so completely.
"Mum," Philip groaned.
"Love me," Beverly responded. "Move inside me, darling. Love your mother."
Three
Christmas morning and it seemed like the whole country woke beneath a blanket of snow. Outside in the narrow street the virginal covering lay pure and undisturbed. Philip stirred and blinked over the covers of his mother's bed. When he looked for her next to him he found her gone.
Philip threw back the thick eiderdown and, braced against the fist of frigid air, stepped out of bed. Fully awake now in the cold air, still naked, Philip hurried along the landing towards the stairs. As he descended he heard the sound of his mother on the level below. He found her in the parlour, naked like himself as she knelt in front of the Christmas tree. Philip stepped quietly into the room and felt the welcoming warmth of the early fire his mother had lit earlier that morning. Beverly rose to her feet unaware that her son was in the room with her.
Philip looked at his mother's comfortable body, examining the shape of her from behind. His cock swelled at the sweep of her curves. Aroused at her narrow waist and swell of her hips, Philip moved quickly towards Beverly, the jib of his erection waggling heavily in front of his body.
"You naughty boy," Beverly giggled when she felt Philip's hard-on nudge the small of her back. She held her son's forearms where they encircled her waist as he drew her back against his body. "Is that a present for me?" she added. "Do you have something big and hard for me to play with on Christmas morning?" Beverly swivelled within Philip's embrace. Her breasts squashed against his broad chest while she grinned up into his face and held the length of him in her hand. Beverly's fingers curled around the girth of her son's cock, not quite meeting as they encircled the thickness at the root of him. Desire flooded between Beverly's legs while she stroked her son's erection -- he was almost as long as her forearm; a cubit's length of lovely cock from palm to the crook of her elbow.
"I want to taste you," Beverly muttered into her son's ear. "Let me suck you, darling."
Philip pushed his fingers through his mother's thick, dark hair as the warm heat of her mouth engulfed the head of his cock. He groaned when her tongue tickled the sensitive frenulum, the taut banjo string on the underside of his dick.
"You're too big for my mouth," Beverly chuckled as she stroked her fist along Philip's gristle. "My jaw will ache for days if I try to suck this thing."
"Lie down, Mum," Philip muttered, still a little shy despite the time he'd spent tumbling with his mother beneath the covers of her bed.
"What are you going to do?" Beverly asked, her eyes shining. Her insides melted and her sex clenched with excitement. She knew what Philip had in mind and she eagerly complied with his instruction, laying back on the familiar sofa to open her legs to him.
An arterial burst of lust surged through Philip as he gazed at his mother, her legs wide so the hot scarlet slash of her cunt showed pink and wet through the thick pubic bush. He bent towards her, kneeling on the carpet to dab his tongue at her core.
"Lick me, darling," Beverly gasped. "Kiss me down there. Suck my clit and lick me. Finger me. I'm so wet for you. Love me like a good son loves his mother."
Philip slurped at his mother's sex until the woman gasped and grunted, her body jack-knifing at the waist while her legs and arms stiffened and she clawed at the cushions and her son's shoulders.
"I'm coming," Beverly cried out, "I'm coming on your face, Philip."
Next came the bit Philip found the most exciting. He found licking his mother's sex to be arousing, and fucking into her with his cock, feeling her clenching around his girth, excited him beyond measure, but what he really loved was the kissing. For him, kissing his own mother with a lover's mouth, pushing his tongue between her lips and feeling her tongue slide with his was more erotic than any other act. It felt so intimate to kiss her that way, so much more illicit and taboo than the fucking.
As they kissed, Philip slid into his mother's body, the place now familiar to him, not like the first few times he'd fumbled and prodded, clumsily attempting to find the core of her with his blind-eyed penis. Now, with the ease of a few hours practice, Philip slid easily into her in one, long, slick glide.
"I love you, Mum," Philip groaned, his lips brushing hers before they kissed again.
"And I love you too, Philip," Beverly grunted. "But I'm in the mood for hard fucking. Give it to me. Fuck me with that lovely cock."
Philip understood his mother's need. So far their love-making had been soft sighs and tender kisses, both of them exploring the wonder they'd discovered now that the resistance had faded. Both mother and son had accepted their feelings and had succumbed to the inevitable. For Philip, now he'd renounced the guilt and embraced the new, fresh and exciting love, a different kind of love, granted, but love nevertheless, he found the world a more welcoming place. It seemed that his attitudes and feelings had been reborn, like the pristine world beyond the window with its pure covering of snow. He knew that now was the time to release the purely physical aspect of the joining with his mother, and he eased himself up off her body to hold himself over her on straight arms.
Philip looked down and saw where his mother's body accepted his length. He then looked into her eyes and saw a glint of devilment there. Beverly's bottom lip was between her teeth as she half-smirked a challenge to her son, and Philip felt the undiluted burst of lust swell his cock.
"Hard?" he questioned, his head tilting to one side.
"Fucking hard," Beverly nodded. "Do your worst. Fuck me with that big cock. Make your mother scream ... Be a good boy."
Philip's hips jerked as he stabbed at his mother's sex. "Like that?" he asked when, with a groan and a wince of pleasure, Beverly closed her eyes and grinned with the pure pleasure of being stuffed with male gristle.
"More," Beverly gurgled. "Please. More."
Watching his mother's breasts roll, Philip began to thrust harder. Beverly grunted with each jab of his thick cock. Her face twisted into a mask of concentration while her teeth clenched and she urged the young man to fuck into her faster and deeper. Beverly's toes tingled when she felt her climax begin its inexorable bubbling deep in the visceral depths. She jerked her hips upwards to meet the savage downstrokes, her body opening at each thrust of the spongy yet unyielding bludgeon of her son's cock-head as he plunged and drilled deeper and deeper.
"You're so hot, Mum," Philip gasped, so wet and hot around me."
"Well you're fucking me deeper than I've ever known," Beverly snarled through her tightly clenched teeth. "Your big fucking cock is touching me in places I didn't even imagine existed. Oh, fuck, Philip ... it feels so good. You feel so marvellous inside me. I never want it to end. Love me, darling. Fuck me. Make me come!"
Philip's eyes rolled in their orbits while he gasped and moaned. He desperately tried to hold the surge of his climax at bay while, at the same time, he jabbed and thrust, stuffing more of his cock deep into Beverly's voracious cunt. He wanted to satisfy his mother in every way; he couldn't refuse her, he loved her too much to deny her the climax she sought. But, paradoxically, as he strove towards satisfying the writhing snarling woman beneath him, Philip came close to letting himself go.
"Do you want to come, baby?" Philip heard his mother gasp.
"I'm ... It ..." Philip clamped his mouth closed, concentrating on holding himself in check. "I can't hold it back much longer, Mum," he groaned finally.
Beverly pushed her hips up to take her son further into her body. "Let it go," she said. "Oh, fuck, Philip, just let it go. If you come then I'll come too. Do it, my darling. Pour it into me. Let me feel your cock spit all your spunk into me."
They came together. Philip grunted and gasped, his semen spurting into Beverly while the woman herself convulsed and clamped her arms around her son to draw him on top of her. Philip's semen pumped and squirted, drenching his mother's cervix until Beverly felt flooded with the stuff. Jizm squelched and farted between the couple as Philip's girth expelled their combined juices, the sheer size of him displacing the goo that filled his mother.
"Happy Christmas, Philip," Beverly crooned when, with a final sigh, Philip's weight settled on top of her. She wrapped her son in a tight embrace, her arms around his body while her legs held him around the waist.
"Merry Christmas to you too, Mum," Philip panted.
And they were both certain that, for them, it would be a merry Christmas and a happy new year.
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