I slipped the key quietly in the lock and deftly opened the door. The entrance passage of the hallway was already suffused with the first rays of the morning sun. The sounds of the Indian morning were rising from the street below. Not that I needed any reminding that I’d been out all night. What had begun as a dinner party thrown by my American boss Belinda had developed into rather more than that.
This itself was not a surprise either. Or rather, let me put it another way. It was, of course, Belinda who had first awoken me to the intensity of my attraction to women. Her frank admission that she was bisexual had lit a fuse which had exploded in such an unexpected and explosive way. It had led to my mother and I becoming lesbian lovers - each of us avowing a love and passion for the other. Instead of occupying the same house as repressed and isolated individuals, we had come together as a couple, kissing and hugging on the sofa during the evenings and exploring each others luscious bodies by night. I had never been happier, more fulfilled; and neither, by her own accounts, had my mother.
It was thus with some apprehension that I told my mother that Belinda had invited me to her flat for dinner. Her husband, she said, would be visiting for a few days and she wanted to take the opportunity to introduce us and, she hoped, get to know me rather better.
The possibilities of the situation were obvious. Belinda had made no secret to me of her bisexual tendencies. It was, of course, her own willingness to speak so openly of her desire for women that had ignited my own latent lesbian tendencies. She had entered my fantasies at that stage and had never wholly left them - fulfilled though I was in my mother’s love.
Neither had she done anything to disguise the fact that she found me attractive. Rarely did a day go by when she did not compliment me on my figure or my choice of clothes. When we were together in her office I often found her gaze lingering on my ample bust or my legs. I was deeply flattered and did nothing to shield from her my charms. Quite frankly, it turned me on to be the subject of this sophisticated American’s attention. Her own fine features and tight body were enough to keep me aroused in her presence. I knew that if she made a move on me I would give her all she wanted. What I didn’t know was how my mother would take such a development. Would it hurt her to hear that I fancied another woman? Could she accept that her baby might make it with a younger and western woman? I needed answers to these questions before I could respond to Belinda’s invitation - before I contemplated taking an irrevocable step. I certainly had no wish to damage my loving relationship with my mother.
I broached the subject that evening as my mother and I relaxed on the sofa after one of her typically full and delicious meals. My mother always perspired as she cooked for me in the sultry Indian evening and I loved the heightened aroma of her body - rich with the mixed scent of spices, oils, perfume and sweat. She delighted in opening her curvaceous body to me, slipping of her silvakamiz and reclining against the arm of the sofa in only a bra and panties. Wearing only a loose T-shirt, I had slipped into her arms and squeezed her gently, our lips meeting in lazy kisses interspersed with occasional conversation and mutual caresses. So we spent many an evening until I, wanting more, would whisper in my mother’s ear - ‘Please mummy, take me to bed…’
Thus secure in my mother’s arms I mentioned Belinda’s invitation to dinner and asked if she would mind if I accepted. I needn't have worried. Smiling, she pressed my face to her bare shoulder.
‘Of course I don’t mind, my dear. When your boss asks you to dinner you simply must accept. There’s no question about it.’
‘But mother, you know about Belinda? You know she’s into women as well as men. And you know that she flirts with me at work. Are you sure you don’t mind - what if she makes a pass at me?’
‘Mmmm, I wasn’t born yesterday you know. I can quite imagine what Belinda might have on her mind. But tell me, darling, what if she did make a move on you, how would you respond? Would you welcome that? Be honest.’
Avoiding my mother’s gave I pressed my face deeper into her bare neck.
‘Well, ehh, yes, mother, yes, I think I would…’
I was blushing, acutely embarrassed to be speaking of my feelings for another woman whilst lying in my mother’s arms. Here I was with my lover, a woman who satisfied my desires ten-times over, admitting that I would welcome the attentions of a woman 25 years her junior. I felt my mother's hand begin to caress my back and slide down to my bare arse.
‘So tell me about Belinda, baby. How does she turn you on? What does she do to you? You know you must tell mummy everything….’
I told my mother what happened each day at work. How Belinda focused her attentions upon me, how she praised my clothes, admired my appearance. I told her how her eyes lingered on my full bust and how she complimented me on my womanly curves. I described the scent of her perfume, the expensive cut of her suits, and the way she rarely missed an opportunity to slip her arms around me as we discussed paperwork or a homepage. And I related the innuendo of her conversation - the way she spoke of her appreciation of the beauty of Indian women, of her openly expressed bisexuality.
As I spoke I noticed my mother breathing more deeply, her heavy breasts rising and falling with a steady rhythm. Her hand had tightened its hold upon my arse. I raised my own hand now and placed it on her left breast. She sighed. I leaned forward and kissed my mother’s full lips, still pungent from the taste of the meal. As always we expressed our love though soft full kisses, each finding warmth and comfort in the taste of the other. Only when I lifted my lips from hers did my mother whisper to me.
