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It was the day of my father’s funeral. The reasons for his death seemed to have been connected with heavy smoking, heavy drinking, and if my mother was to be believed, heavy sexing, mainly with her, but not exclusively so. My father was a believer in sharing his talents.
When the funeral cortege set out from the town, the weather hadn’t seemed too bad. By the time we got to the cemetery, which is on a bleak hillside about three kilometres out of the town, the wind had blown up to a howling gale driving sheets of rain before it. The parson was temporarily sheltered by the undertaker’s umbrella, but as this blew inside out, he had to bear the soaking along with the rest of us.
My brother, standing next to me, muttered in my ear, “Just the sort of weather to conclude dad’s life. He went through it like a storm, and is leaving it in one.”
I grunted agreement, but said nothing.
Looking across the grave at my three sisters standing there with their moronic husbands – they’d have to be moronic to marry my sisters – I saw what might have been crocodile tears, but most probably it was the rain. I could almost feel their tiny brains working out how much longer mum would last before she fell off the twig so they could divide the spoils.
Mum was standing next to my brother. He’s the oldest and so I suppose, head of the family now, whatever that means. I’m the youngest of the family.
Looking at mum, a fairly lusty lady – “Beautifully abundant” I think its called – at fifty years of age I reckoned she was good for another twenty-five years at least.
She’d married dad and had my brother when she was only eighteen. She said she got pregnant to dad after a boozy night at the local football club, but rumour has it that she could have got it from anyone of half a dozen blokes that night.
In her day, so I’m told, she was the best looking girl in town. “Could have had her pick of the blokes,” they said. She’s still a pretty good-looking bird given her age and if you like them buxom.
Me, I’m a bit like dad, I’m not all that fussy as long as they open their legs for me and haven’t been eating garlic.
I’d come in from the gas fields up north where I worked as a fitter, to attend the funeral. Hardly any females up there, so it’s hard to get a screw. “Might have a look around town for a bit of talent while I’m here,” I thought. We get big money up at the fields, and the crumpet usually goes for that.
The parson stopped mumbling and they lowered the coffin – or if you’re posh, “casket” – into the grave that was rapidly filling with water. A few more mumbles from the parson and we were on our way out of the rain and into the cars.
We all headed back to the old place and the keg of beer we’d clubbed together to buy.
The blokes sat around the keg in sopping clothes, drinking beer and discussing footy, while the women drank some muck out of bottles and cried, or pretended to. A couple of neighbours had come in to get the food ready while we were getting gale lashed, so we got stuck in.
After a couple of hours we had stuffed and drunk our selves stupid, and a couple of the blokes got arguing over their footy teams and went outside to settle the matter in the street. That broke the party up, not because of the fight as such, but because a nosy bastard across the street had called the police.
One of the arguers spent the night in hospital and the other in jail.
Out of all mums’ kids, I’m the only unmarried one, so I’m the one who had to stay with mum. Not that I had anywhere else to go, this being the old family home.
So, they all cleared off, including the parson who was pissed out of his mind. Don’t blame the poor bugger, having to put up with some of those mealy mouthed bastards who attend his church, it’d drive Saint Francis to drink.
I’m alone with mum. She’s not much used to booze but had got stuck into on this occasion. So she was staggering around trying to clear up some of the ruins of food and bottles we’d been left with, and I’m turning my head this way and that to try and stop seeing double. I took a look at one of the bottles that the women had been drinking out of, and I was just able to see though the alcohol haze it was about three times more potent than the beer we’d been drinking. No wonder mum was weaving around as if she couldn’t see what she was doing.
Making a mighty effort to talk straight, I put my arm round mum and said, “Leave it mum, we can fix it in the morning. You get to bed.”
She looked at me with bleary soulful eyes. “Yer right, Gav (Gavin), I can hardly shtand up.”
I managed to guide her to her bedroom, but at the door, and with amazing firmness given her condition, she stopped and said, “Gotta clean me teesh. Must clean me teesh.” She staggered to the other side of the hallway and entered the bathroom.
I decided to leave her to it, and went into the lounge and had a last cigarette. When I finished I decided on a shower, then bed.
I showered and felt a trifle more coherent, but not much. When I finished, I cleaned my teesh (sorry) teeth, and Eskişehir Escort wrapped a towel round my middle. Gawd knows why since there was no one to observe my manly assets, and even if there were someone, they would probably be too pissed to notice.
I made my way toward my old bedroom but on the way, I noticed mum’s bedroom door was open, so I thought I’d pop in and see if she was ok. It was a daunting sight that met my eyes. Mum was standing starkers with her clothes dropped all round her, bawling her eyes out.
I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. I didn’t want to leave mum standing there weeping. But mum, despite the nightly fucking she used to get from dad, and which could be heard all over the house, had always been modest where us kids were concerned, so I’d never seen her in her underclothes, let alone naked like now.
Mum didn’t seem to have noticed me, so I stood there looking at her. She was an interesting sight, because despite the battering she had taken giving birth to five kids, and the fact that dad never lifted a finger around the house, she wasn’t in bad nick.
As I said before, she’s a buxom lady with plenty of hip and heavy thighs. Her breasts, which in their glory days must have been a remarkable sight (no wonder dad and the other blokes wanted her), were still large. But they now swung pendulously, the nipples big and brown, and from the distance I was standing from her, seemed to have little knobs or pimples over them. I’d seen them like that before on some of the older birds I’d fucked.
“She fed five kids with those, so I suppose they’ve had a bit of a battering, ” I thought.
I decided that retreat was my best option after all, so I was just turning to go when mum spotted me. She seemed completely unperturbed that she was naked in front of me, perhaps she didn’t even realise she was naked, and she just stood there wailing.
“Gav, love, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?”
I wasn’t sure to what she referred, so a took a punt and said, “The money’ll be okay mum. You know dad left you comfortable.”
“I know Gav. Ish not that, love. Ish the other.”
“You know, Gav,…the…other…”
Light dawned. Had mum been sober she would never have spoken of sex even in general, let alone refer to her couplings with my father.
“D’yer know, Gav, the bugger ushed ter shcrew me every night, even up to a couple of weesh before he shnuffed it?”
I almost admitted to knowing about their copulating habits, but decided to try to circumvent the revelations and said, “Come on mum, let me help you put your nightdress on and get you into bed.”
“Never wore a nightie after me honeymoon. Bugger jush tore ’em off, sho wash washte of money.”
“All right, but what about getting you to bed?”
I moved towards her and she sort of swayed towards me. I grabbed her and found myself with an armful of mum.
She seemed to tuck herself against me and spoke in a drunken but purring sort of voice.
“Yer look like yer dad, Gav. Shpittin image you are. Come on, give yer old mum a cuddle.”
I had little option but to “give my old mum a cuddle.” I’m a strong sort of bloke, but like I’ve indicated, mum’s a hefty lady. So, there I was trying to hold her up while she’s starting to sort of crawl over me.
“Betcha good with the girlsh, Gav, eh? Got a big one like yer dad?”
She tried to whisper this in what I suppose she thought was a seductive voice, but it sounded like someone being strangled.
Now, I must ask you to forgive me, folks, but I feel I need to make a few explanations, or perhaps they are confessions, before I go on with the action.
I work at the gas field for two weeks straight, then I get a full week off. I admit that I’d neglected mum because I never came home on those weeks off. I went to the city. It wasn’t really mum I was avoiding, but the old man. We never got on, always arguing.
When I got my week off, as you can imagine, I was really horny. I went looking for crumpet, but its not as easy as you think to get anything, unless you go to the whores, which I don’t like unless I’m really desperate.
Now here comes the confession. If someone like mum was on offer when I had my week off, I’d screw the backside off her. I prefer the older woman anyway, they put a lot more into it, and they have a lot more to put in.
So there you are. And there I was, with my arms full of mum, and her pulling up against me, pressing her breasts and belly to me. Now, even though she is my mum, I started to get a stiff one, and still being a bit sloshed, the old morality wasn’t working so well.
Mum felt my stiff pushing against her through the towel, and in her inebriated condition, she let nature have its head, and I felt her hand reach down and start to feel along my shaft through the towel.
“Gawd boy, got a beauty there. Reckon ish bigger than yer dad’sh. Get yer mum inter bed, then.”
I struggled her over to the bed and she plonked down on it in a sitting position. I stood before her for a moment, Eskişehir Escort Bayan recovering from the battle, and she reached up and ripped the towel off me.
“Thash what the bugger did to me nightiesh.” She gave a cackling laugh. “Now I got you ripped off, ain’t I?”
“Yes mum. Now I really must go to bed.”
“Courshe yer going ter bed. Yer goin ter bed, with yer mum. Wouldn’t leave yer old mum in her bere…buriv…her mishery, would yer!”
She had moved back on the bed a little, spreading legs to reveal a thoroughly wet cleft, and was tugging me over her.
“Come on, Gav. Good for ush. Yer not a man till yer’v had yer mum.”
Mother or not, she’d got me really going. I had a throbbing cock that wasn’t going to rest until it had found a home, and there was one right in front of me. I got between her legs and shoved towards her slit. I felt it enter a warm, wet world. If I thought about it at all, I suppose I would have expected her to be sloppy inside, but she was as tight as a drum round me.
Mum gave a long sigh and muttered, “Thash it Gav. Jush were yer belong, love.”
I would like to give you a detailed, blow by blow account of this coupling, but I fear I cannot. I know I shot a fortnight’s frustration into mum, but whether she had an orgasm or not I really don’t know.
When I finished I must have just rolled off her and went straight to sleep. I assume much the same happened to mum.
I came to in the morning with mum facing me and her arm across me. She was still asleep, and I had a splitting headache. My mouth felt like the bottom of a parrot’s cage, and I decided that some aspirin and a glass of water was the thing.
I made a move to get mum’s arm off me, but in doing so, I woke her up. She gave an agonised moan as she came to, and looked at me through slitted eyes.
“My God, Gav, I feel terrible.”
“Me too, mum. I’m just going to get some aspirin. I’ll bring you some.”
Suddenly mum seemed wide-awake. Her eyes opened wide and she sat up staring at me.
“Here, what the hell are you doing in my bed?”
I felt a cold knife shoot through my guts. “Here’s trouble,” I thought.
“Well, you sort of invited me in, mum, don’t you remember?”
Her face seemed to contort in an effort to recall the doings of the previous night, then she burst out; “Don’t give me that young Gavin” – sure sign she was angry with me when she called me “Gavin” – “As if I’d let my own son get into bed with me.”
“But you did mum.”
“Gavin, you haven’t been mucking about with me, have you?”
I felt rather than saw her hand go down between her legs.
“My God, you have! You’ve defiled your own mother! You dirty beast! I’ve a good mind to call the police.”
Mum had done three years at high school, so she knew how to use words like “defile,” accept, of course, when she was sloshed.
I tried to explain what had happened, but mum was in no mood to listen. She yelled and shrieked abuse at me, and ended up telling me to get out and not show my face in the house again.
Mum can be very formidable when she’s riled, so I packed and left.
I spent the rest of my time off in the city, but was so dejected I didn’t even go crumpet hunting. I was glad to get back to the gas field and work.
About the middle of the second week of my work period, I got a letter. I recognised the writing as mum’s, and not wanting to cop any more wrath I almost didn’t open it, but then thought I might as well take the rest of her abuse. She was fairly much to the point, as always, but not to the point I expected. It read:
Sorry about the way I bawled you out the other day. I had a terrible hangover. I realised what happened that night, and as we were both drunk, especially me, I understand how it happened.
I don’t think now it was really so bad, and I want to say I still love you, so please come home for your next week off and we can talk.
Your Ever Loving Mum.
The letter seemed reassuring and I ruminated on whether I should go home or not. A worm of doubt still worked away in my brain. Mum had written, “we can talk.” What sort of talk was it going to be?
When I was little and mum was pulling a splinter out of me, she used to say, “Now be a brave little soldier.” I decided to be a brave soldier, and go home to face the music, whatever it was.
My week off began and I set out in the car for the long drive home. My stomach felt as if it had a thrashing machine churning inside it.
Arriving home things started well. Mum had the front door open as soon as I pulled into the driveway. She came and putting her arms round me, said, “Give your mum a kiss, then.”
Now I had avoided kissing mum ever since I was about twelve. It was not that I didn’t like kissing her, but I thought it seemed a sissy thing to do. I went to give her a peck on the cheek, but she pulled my face round and gave me a soft wet one on the lips, right out there on the driveway where the neighbours could have seen us.
Mum Escort Eskişehir has very nice full lips, and they should not kiss anyone unless there’s going to be something at the end of it, if you know what I mean. This public kiss lingered and her lips moved over mine in a suggestive sort of way.
She broke from the kiss and said, “Come in love, I’ve got some dinner cooking for us.”
We went into the kitchen where most of our family living had been done over the years. I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that the “talk” was not due to take place yet. Food came first, and the only mealtime talk was concerned with the financial woes of my sisters and their husbands, and the fact that my youngest sister, Dotty, had “another one on the way.”
“Thank God I’m past having any more,” mum said significantly.
I took this to mean she was glad that my one venture into her female private parts could come to nothing, however potent my seed. I can’t say I was sorry either.
It was not until after we had cleared away and washed up that the main item on the agenda was opened up. We went into the lounge and sat facing each other in armchairs. Mum opened the subject.
“Gav, I wrote to you I was sorry about the way I spoke to you. I really do mean it. We were both sloshed, me a bit more than you I reckon. These things happen, and it’s no use being sorry afterwards. Your not sorry, are you?”
Her voice and manner were very calm, but her question was a twist I hadn’t expected. I needed to be careful how I answered it. I felt sure there was a trap in there somewhere. I opted for what I thought was a neutral sort of answer.
“Well, I’m sorry if you’re sorry and upset, mum. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to feel…” I groped for an appropriate word and remembered the one she had used, “defiled.”
She gave a quirky sort of smile and said, “No, I don’t feel defiled, Gav.” Then she threw another question at me.
“I don’t remember anything about it, Gav,” she said in a rueful sort of voice. “Was it all right, love. I mean, did you find it unpleasant or anything?”
I sought in the recesses of my memory to recall just how it had been, and at the same time kept in mind, that one wrong word could bring on a real upset with mum. I could see that her female pride was on the line here, and if I said something like, “It was horrible, mum,” she’d be really put out. On the other hand, if I said something like, “It was fantastic,” she might think I was a pervert. I tried for neutrality again.
“Of course, mum, I was pretty tanked up as well, so I can’t really remember clearly what it was like, but I did…you know…I did shoot into you.”
“I know,” she said, “I was still full of you in the morning. Gav, would you have done that to me if we hadn’t been drunk?”
Another one to try to skitter round. “You mean, if you was still you, but not mum?”
“Well, all right, let’s say I’m not your mum and you met me, would you like me enough to want to do it with me?”
The reader will remember I have previously touched on this matter, so I gave mum a truthful answer.
“Yes, I would.”
A seraphic smile washed over her face. “You mean, if neither of us was drunk and I wasn’t your mum, you’d still fancy me?”
“Yes, mum.” I thought I’d put a bit of icing on the cake. “After all, you’re a good looking woman.”
“Do you really think so, Gav?”
“Of course I do.”
There was a long pause, as she seemed to contemplate my answers. I waited, wondering what was coming next. I did wonder if we had finished this talk, but I felt there was more coming, and there was.
“Gav, if you would fancy me if I wasn’t your mum, wouldn’t that mean you still fancy me even though I am your mum? I mean, even if we weren’t drunk, like we’re not drunk now, and I’m still your mum, as I am right now, would you still fancy me?”
I still wasn’t sure if she was setting up me so she could pounce, so I decided to dive in with a question of my own.
“Mum, if you weren’t drunk, and I wasn’t your son, would you fancy me?”
I could see she was, what they call, “Hoist by her own petard.” She sat staring at me in a disconcerted way. She paused for so long I thought she wasn’t going to answer at all. Then finally she said:
“Do you really want the truth, Gav?”
“I asked the question mum, and you and me have always been truthful to each other.”
“Yes, that was always the nice thing about you, Gav, not like your sisters or brother.”
There was another long pause, then:
“All right, I’ll tell you straight, I’d fancy you, son.”
Turning her final question to me right round on her I said, “Does that mean that though we aren’t drunk, and I am your son, you still fancy me?”
She flushed bright red, then said very quietly in a strangled sort of voice, “Gav, love, I’ve wanted you for years.”
Tears started to roll down her cheeks and sobs shook her. I think that she was humiliated at having been trapped into telling the truth, when she had expected to trap me.
I had always loved mum. I suppose being the last of her children I had been closer than the others had been. Seeing her now, weeping over her confession, the exposure of what must have been deeply suppressed thoughts and feelings, I felt a wave of compassion and love pass through me. I got off my chair and went and knelt in front of her.
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