Love in the First Lockdown
Alex's mother can't live without sex, so when the first UK lockdown looms, and she has no other man in her life, she appeals to her son for help.
This story's a bit of a mother/son incest potboiler but I hope you enjoy it and look forward to comments. There is some anal sex at the end which you can skip or look forward to depending upon your preferences.
Sylviafan November 2024
Looking back, it's obvious to me now that my mother suffers from some form of sex addiction; the signs were there all along. Although "suffers" is perhaps not the right word; she enjoys every minute of it. About 90% of sex addicts are male, so it's relatively unusual in females but it does happen. And when your mother is a sex addict and you are both more or less housebound together for six weeks, it's not hard to imagine what might happen, particularly when you rather fancy your mother in the first place...
My dad died when I was about five - I hardly remember him. It was an industrial accident arising from gross negligence on the part of his employer. They settled out of court making my mother wealthy enough to pay off the mortgage and only work part-time, as a hotel receptionist. She's very good at it, too, being attractive, well-dressed and articulate.
But it wasn't long after dad died that the first of a long line of men moved into the house. I didn't mind too much; it's a big house and they were generally kind to me, the only child, realising that it was a route to my mother's affections. They were often generous, too, giving me money to stay out on a Sunday afternoon. And neither were my mother and her partners' sexual activities confined to Sunday afternoons; many was the night I lay awake as a youngster listening through the wall to mum's bed creaking, her muffled squeals and groans and the grunting of her lover.
Her partners rarely lasted more than two or three years, and sometimes only a few months. Given that dad died about twenty-five years ago, that's probably between fifteen and twenty different men that passed through her bedroom, the last one being Rick. And the funny thing was that the older mum got, the younger her partners seemed to get. I think Rick was thirty-five, only five years older than me. Mum, I should add, is fifty-two, although she could get away with mid-forties when she's all dressed up and painted for war.
I never warmed to Rick; there was something about him that I didn't like. I'd moved out of the house more than ten years before to go to university and never moved back, so I didn't share the house with him or anything; I had a flat the other side of town. Mum of course was besotted, as she always was, to begin with.
This story really starts a few weeks before the first UK lockdown started in March 2020. I'd gone round, unannounced, to mum's house on a Saturday morning to see if she was ok; I hadn't heard from her for a week or two. Stupidly I'd forgotten my front door key but as the back door was generally unlocked I went around the side of the house and opened the door into the kitchen just as Rick walloped my mum round the side of the head with an open palm, sending her crashing to the floor.
I was suddenly and furiously angry. I stepped up to Rick and, as he started to turn to me and say something, I hit him as hard as I could on the end of his chin. It was a cracker of a punch and he went down in a heap, sprawled motionless by the kitchen table. I went straight to my mum and helped her up and into the sitting room. She seemed more embarrassed than upset, but there was a red mark on her cheek and before the afternoon was out she'd have a black eye.
'How often has he done that, Mum?' I asked, sitting next to her with my arm around her shoulders.
'A couple of times,' she admitted and I realised that was probably why I hadn't seen so much of her lately. My anger re-ignited and I stood up suddenly. 'Don't do anything silly, Alex,' my mum gasped as I strode from the room.
In the kitchen Rick was sitting up and rubbing his chin. 'Get out of this house,' I told him, coldly. He was taller than me but distinctly on the puny side and he didn't seem inclined to argue. 'What about my stuff?' he asked as I propelled him through the front door with a hand between his shoulder blades.
'It'll be in the porch. Come back for it tomorrow. After that, if I see you round here I'll hurt you.' It was a bit Hollywood tough-guy, though it was delivered with absolute sincerity.
After he'd driven off I went back in and made mum a cup of tea and found a bag of frozen peas in the chest freezer in the garage which she held to her cheek and eye as she sipped her drink at the kitchen table. I sat across the table from her and tried to cheer her up as the bag of peas dripped onto the pine tabletop.
Everyone except me calls my mum Sam. Those who don't know her very well assume it's short for Samantha. It's actually short for Samira, which is a popular girl's name in Iran, where she was born. Her mother, who was Iranian, married my granddad, who was British and worked for a petrochemical company, and for about ten years they lived in southern Iran until late 1978 when they moved back to the UK ahead of the deposition of the Shah. So mum grew up speaking English at home and she doesn't have any sort of accent other than middle England, though she is still fluent in Farsi.
But there are signs of her heritage in her looks: her skin is an enchanting light olive tone and her hair is very black, even at fifty-two, and she wears it in a fashionable curly mop. She's got a rather round face with full, sensuous lips, very white teeth, which are a tiny bit on the large side, a straight nose and big, dark, saucy eyes. Her figure is exquisite, especially for a lady of her age: tall and slender with C cup breasts, narrow waist and flaring hips. Her legs are amazing - long and shapely and slim-ankled - and they're on view a lot of the time, especially from the knee down, because she almost always wears a dress and stockings and high-heels, never trousers. And let me tell you that the sight of my mum's legs in black stockings is enough to turn my guts liquid and make my cock stand to attention. In fact she's acutely conscious of her appearance and is never seen out without the full set of clothes, make-up, nail varnish and scent and everything else. I believe the neighbourhood women think she's a bit of a tart, especially with all the men that have passed through the house over the years. I also think she's completely unaware of this - or at least I did.
On the debit side, she is fifty-two and there are a few fine lines on her face, especially round her eyes, and some loose skin at her throat. But for me that's more of a positive than otherwise; I think it enhances her appearance, highlights her mature attractiveness. Though sometimes, I have to admit, when she's really slapped the cosmetics on and she's wearing a tight dress that barely comes to mid-thigh, she does look a bit sluttish.
And in case you're wondering if the way I have described my mother's appearance tells you anything about my feelings for her then you're dead right. You don't lie in your adolescent bed, night after night, listening to your sexy mother being fucked by a succession of men without it having some effect. I wanted it to be me in her bed! Although when that fancy turned to a possibility I wasn't quite as eager as I would have imagined, as we shall see.
After the incident with Rick, I went round to mum's house four or five times over the next month. He never came back, or at least we never saw him; the suitcase we'd packed and left in the porch disappeared so I assume he collected it. But mum was a bit of a mess emotionally, which surprised me because Rick was a pretty poor excuse for a human being and she could have done a lot better. But it turned out that she wasn't mourning the loss of Rick so much as her apparent inability to find and retain a decent man for any length of time.
'What's wrong with me, Alex?' she wailed at me after we'd sat in the kitchen and drunk a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon one evening.
'Nothing, Mum,' I assured her.
'So why can't I find someone?' That was tricky. My personal opinion was that my mother was rather impatient and insecure and tended to throw herself at any presentable guy who showed a bit of interest, especially if he was a decade or two younger. Then the younger guy would have a fun time screwing a horny mature lady before tiring of her and going looking for someone closer to his own age. Which all sounds very simplistic but I was sure that Mr Right was out there somewhere if only mum would exercise a bit of patience and stick to dating closer to her own age group.
'Someone'll turn up,' I reassured her.
'But when?' she asked, pouring the last of the wine. 'There's this lockdown thing coming into force tomorrow at midnight and after that all I can do is go to the supermarket!' She gulped down the last of her wine. 'And God knows how long that'll go on for. It could be months!
