For Liz ...
My mother had been behaving strangely. I thought it might have been something to do with her age – she was in her mid-forties - or maybe it was just that I didn't understand women. I hadn't had much experience with them. I was nearly nineteen, but my furtive groping with girls had left me unsatisfied, physically as well as emotionally, and I thought I was probably under-sexed. Mum and I had always been open about sex, and I'd tried to talk to her about it. She'd looked concerned for a moment, but then she just laughed, and said I was probably going through a phase, and that I'd grow out of it.
A little later, though, she kissed me goodnight in a way she'd never done before. She slid her arms round my neck, one hand cupping the back of my head, her body moulded to mine from breast to knee, looking into my eyes with an unreadable expression on her face, and then she'd slowly worked her mouth on mine for probably fifteen or twenty seconds, although at the time it seemed like years.
She had an ankle-length housecoat she sometimes wore, and she suddenly decided it didn't fit her – it was too large. One evening, she told me she'd taken it in, and wanted to know what I thought of it. She went to change into it, and when she returned I could hardly believe my eyes. It had buttons all the way up the front, but she'd only done up three or four of them, from her waist to her groin. Now the housecoat was extremely tight-fitting – I was surprised to see that she'd taken off her bra, and her full breasts were only half-concealed, almost bursting out the housecoat, and every time she moved a bare thigh emerged from the lower half. She circled lazily in front of me, allowing even more of her legs to escape, her breasts moving inside the thin material seductively. I stammered something about it being very nice, and she pressed herself against me and stroked my face, thanking me for the compliment. All I could think of was her soft body, naked under the housecoat, and I felt my penis stiffen.
Long, wet goodnight kisses had become the rule, and I found myself looking forward to them with increasing eagerness. Also, my mother seemed to be more and more forgetful about closing her bedroom door. I had to pass her room on my way back from the bathroom, and I'd often glimpse her moving around half naked, and once when she emerged from the bathroom she had only a towel wrapped round her waist, leaving her breasts completely bare. Likewise, I went into the kitchen one morning when she was doing the ironing, and to my amazement she was naked apart from her panties, but she seemed not to notice the way I stared at her.
It was a Saturday morning when she insisted that I went out shopping with her, although she knew I hated it. She wore a short, tight denim skirt, and a v-necked sweater, with obviously no bra beneath it. Her legs were bare, and on her feet she wore high-heeled sandals with cork soles that showed off her legs to perfection. I trailed around the shops with her, embarrassed but at the same time excited at the way men looked at her breasts and legs. She wanted to buy some new tops, and I waited outside the cubicle while she tried them on – again, she was careless about closing the curtain completely, and I was given frequent sightings of a bare breast lifting as she raised her arms above her head. Then I had to give my opinion on what she'd selected, and she watched my reaction as I stared at her body.
At lunchtime we went to a pub for a beer and a sandwich. Mum perched on a stool and crossed her legs. She took my hand and thanked me for coming out with her, and she let our hands rest on her bare thigh – the short skirt had ridden up considerably, and I had difficulty in not staring at her legs, as did several of the men in the bar, when they weren't gazing at her breasts.
Mum noticed it too, and smiled at me. 'I like it when men look at me,' she said. Her legs were lodged against mine as I stood beside her, and I could feel their warmth through my jeans, while I surreptitiously glanced down at her cleavage.
That evening Mum got out some photographs – she was still wearing her denim skirt and sweater, and sitting on the sofa and leaning forward over the coffee table meant that I had an opportunity to see even more of her thighs and the deep valley between her breasts.
She produced a packet of photos taken when she'd gone on a safari holiday in Kenya. I'd seen most of them before, the usual tourist pictures of scenery and wild animals, but then she took out some she hadn't shown me previously. They were taken by a lake at sunset, and the first one she handed me was of her wearing a bikini, stretched out on a rock enjoying the last rays of sunlight.
I studied it carefully, taking in every detail of her body, including the way her nipples poked at the tiny triangles of material that constituted the bikini top. There were a few more of her in different poses, and then she passed me two of her topless. Her breasts looked lovely, lush and ripe, and now her nipples jutted rigidly. I could hardly take my eyes off them, that is until Mum hesitated, then gave me half a dozen photos of her completely nude. I could hardly hold them steady as I saw the patch of hair at the base of her belly, and the way she smiled invitingly at the camera, her body completely exposed.
Mum glanced at me sideways as she took the pictures from me, and then she handed me some of a black boy about my age, and I caught my breath when I saw that he was naked. The setting sun gleamed on his ebony skin, and he was grinning at the camera, his penis flaccid. But in the next couple of shots he was semi-erect, and then there was one of him holding his cock, now completely hard, still smiling at the camera.
'That's Henry,' Mum said softly. 'He was the son of one of the guides, and we became –good friends ...' Her voice trailed away, and she passed me two more photos. I nearly dropped them in surprise when I saw that they were of her and Henry, both naked, their arms round each other as they looked at the camera. In the other one his arm was completely round her body, and his hand was cupping her breast, while her fingers were wrapped round his erect penis.
'Henry took the pictures of me, and I took the ones of him and for those I used the self-timer on the camera ...' Mum said, and I could feel her looking at me, studying my reaction.
'Did he – did he – do you, Mum?' I asked hesitantly, and she laughed throatily.
'Of course he did, darling! He loves white women – and I loved his body – especially the bit I was holding!' She took my hand and squeezed it – we were sitting side by side on the sofa, very close together, and she held my hand between our legs, which were almost touching anyway, and the back of my hand was pressed against her bare thigh.
'You know I go out with men – you aren't shocked, are you, darling?'
I just shook my head, unable to speak. Yes, I knew about her men, but this was different, seeing her naked with the boy, holding his cock, and imagining his hands on her, and him fucking her with the cock she was holding ...
Mum sighed and released my hand, to gather up the photos and put them back in the envelope.
'I'm sorry, darling – I shouldn't have shown them to you – I just thought you'd like to see them.'
