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Mother’s Old Photos

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(I should like to remind readers that this is a work of fiction – non-consensual sex is never right. Women should not be used for sex. Nor should drugs be administered for the purpose they are in this story.)

I had just finished school, a skinny, somewhat introverted eighteen year old, still plagued by acne and a stammer – all the foregoing caused me to be friendless and somewhat introverted. The physical aspects could be blamed on my age and to a lesser extent maybe my genes: but the stammer could be blamed fairly and squarely on my parents, the name they had given me. I was the complete outsider in that day and age, in our village boys left school at the earliest age allowed (fifteen) with no academic qualifications. Whereas I had passed my eleven plus, attended the local Grammar School, at the time I am writing about I was waiting to go up to University.

This was 1960’s England, I was born in 1948 and they had named me Karole! There was a middle name also, but that one to this day I cannot say without my throat muscles contracting, my voice dropping to a strangulated whisper and my having to take a deep breath or else my banished stammer reappears: indeed my fingers even refuse to push the letters of the keyboard. When I started school, I said my name for the first time and endured the ignominy of all the Thomas’s, Richards, and Harry’s bursting into fits of laughter. Mother always said that she gave me the names because she thought they were musical. Maybe they would have been accepted in Hampstead or Chelsea, but in a Cornish fishing village – no way. Mother did not fit in either, a leading light in the local amateur drama society, she said that before marrying she had been an actress.

Which brings the story back to this last summer at home. The hormones were rushing and daily I would be masturbating over the pictures in a somewhat tatty copy of “Health and Efficiency”. This magazine was supposedly a naturists’ magazine, the nearest thing to soft porn freely available in those long gone days. The censorship laws were beaten by showing, either women with shaven pussies or the genital area was air brushed into the sexual blandness of a doll.

Even better I had a somewhat battered paperback copy of Frank Harris’s “My Life and Loves”, early on I had discovered words were more stimulating than the airbrushed photographs my peers treasured. It is I suppose little wonder my peers thought I was either a snob or gay, or both. I did not fit in with the dominant culture of a fishing port.

This story begins on the spring day Mother sent me into the attic to find some playbooks, which she was going to lend to another drama group. Torch in my hand I opened box after box working my way further and further away from the hatch. Boxes filled with plays tied in bundles, photographs of productions, some with press cuttings attached to them. There were also boxes filled with old costumes and props. I could remember seeing many of these plays, indeed I had played juvenile bit parts in some. Tucked at the back I found an old scuffed case. Opening it I saw it contained no plays, there were some bits of costumes most made of gauze and feathers, there were also two hard backed scrapbooks.

I should have closed the case and carried on looking elsewhere, but teen-age introverts even if they are boys can be incredibly nosy. I opened the scrapbooks, even by the yellow torch light it was immediately it was apparent that they related to her career before she married. I wanted to see more, but the torch was too dim and the attic too uncomfortable. Carrying the scrapbooks I crept back to the hatch. Listened – the coast was clear, I could only hear voices downstairs. Sweating with fear at being discovered I silently descended the attic ladder, opened the bedroom door and put the books under my bed.

It was not until later that evening that I was able to examine the books. The glossy monochrome photographs immediately revealed to me mother had done a lot more dancing than acting. There were photo’s of her in high kicking Music Hall chorus lines. Some of the scenery and costumes were sumptuous and others distinctly run-down and to be frank tacky. In the back of one book was a dog eared brown envelope – the type with a stiffened card back. I opened it, tipping its contents onto my bed.

What spilled out literally blew my mind. There was my mother dancing and posing in the buff – stark naked. There was no retouching, the black thatch of her pubic hair clearly on display. Mother sitting open legged on a swing shaped like a crescent moon. Excitedly I went to the chest of drawers where I kept my stamp collection, (a popular hobby in those days when in the UK we only had two T.V. channels), and got out the magnifying glass.

Focusing the glass I could clearly see her open slit, and the bits I had heard smutty references to but never seen. Now the mythology of the playground and Frank Harris’s accounts were becoming reality, I could see the fleshy lips of her labia and even the nub of her clitoris.

It is difficult Escort bayan to have a wank when you are trying to keep a magnifying glass focused but I can assure you I did just that. When I came the thick creamy essence shot everywhere. First I mopped the precious photo clean, then turned my attention to my trousers and shirt, then the candlewick bed cover. There were never any tissues in the house, maybe they were not available in those days, so I always used my dirty socks. My reasoning being, no one looks too closely at a sweaty sock they just get chucked in the washing machine.

Over the next few days I reappraised my mother. I had previously not paid much attention to her, she was just Mum – now she was a sex goddess. Many times I had seen her stripped to only her bra and panties, when I was really young I had changed in the improvised women’s dressing room back-stage of the church hall when I had a part in a play. Thinking back Mum’s figure was pretty trim compared to her friends, who all seemed to have; drooping tits, thick waists and sagging barrel round bellies. Even now I often heard her friends saying things like, “I wish I had your legs …” or “of course with your figure you can wear that!”

With my discoveries about mother my dirty socks were getting so stiff that they could have walked into the washing machine, I was wanking three or four times a day. The photos were all right but I wanted to see the real thing. The obvious place would be to see her in the bath, the question was how. I considered just bursting in and rejected the idea – a one off quick flash was the best I could hope for.

I retreated into the attic, if I lifted a board I could see the ceiling, a hole in the ceiling would allow me to see all when she lay in the bath. The next problem was how would I ensure that the hole was not seen. Back into the bathroom, I lay flat in the bath and surveyed the ceiling, it was smooth, I was confounded. Then fate stepped in, a chunk of the Kitchen ceiling plaster fell out. (Thinking about it, probably caused by my violent wanking in my bedroom above.) Mother told Dad, who said leave it he would fix it when he had time. Dad was away fishing five or seven days at a time, home to sell the catch, take on fuel and supplies and out again. This meant that when the weather held he was never at home, little jobs like the kitchen ceiling went on the back burner until the storms of January through to March. When I went to University in September Mum would be at home totally alone.

I made sure that Mother was out, before I picked up my gutting knife. I went into the bathroom, carefully I cut a triangle shape into the plaster, each side about two inches long, a little levering and a chunk fell away exposing the open lattice of the lathes. To conceal the cuts I hacked the edges rough, then scored and thumped the plaster to make a tracery of cracks. I left the debris in the bath for mother to find.

“This place is falling down.” Mother said to me that evening. I responded by looking at her quizzically – her acting lessons were paying off. “The bathroom ceilings falling down, and it will wait forever before your father fixes it.” Dutifully I went upstairs to survey the ceiling, for her benefit feigning surprise.

The next day I was up before her – not an unusual event. She was still asleep when I entered the attic, hoisted the ladder and closed the hatch. I waited for hours in the dark. I heard her calling me, go into my room, she would assume that I was out doing something – out in my open boat, long lining or up on the cliffs, birdwatching.

When I heard the water running I looked down. She removed her dressing gown. I could see the top of her head and her firm breasts, I had not realised how they jutted out. My imagination worked overtime as I listened to the water tinkle as she sat on the toilet open legged. At that time I was disappointed, the overhead view seemed to be singularly unsatisfactory.

Then she got into the bath. I could have jumped with joy, my efforts were rewarded. As she lay back I was at last able to enjoy the view of her long legs, her black thatch, slim waist and breasts that only fell slightly to the side. She soaped herself, then lay back in the water luxuriating.

Then came the bonus, my stiff prick drove hard into my stomach when I watched her lift one leg onto the side of the bath, opening her sex to my curious gaze. With her fingers she began to massage herself. She picked up the loofah and worked it against the lips of her sex. I could tell from the rhythm that she was masturbating. I got my cock out and I jerked myself off as I watched my mother masturbate. When I came it did not seem to want to stop, great gobbets of spunk jetted onto the dusty boards of the attic, and more would boil in my tight testicles to in-turn fountain from my stiff cock. She was still in the bath still masturbating when my cock started to soften and grow lifeless. I had learnt another lesson, women could keep going for far longer than men!

Every morning for nearly a week Bayan escort I rose early and crept into the attic, then my father was back and I had to stop. To tell the truth the attic was becoming unsatisfactory, obviously I was not a voyeur. I had to hatch another more satisfying scheme to get what I wanted, contact with my mother’s body.

The two days, three nights Dad was home gave me the time to think. I considered the possibility of a direct approach, revealing my desires to my mother, and I rejected the idea out of hand. Then I considered using the photographs to blackmail her, but I reckoned she was too strong a character to succumb. If Dad knew about her past, and there was no reason to think he did not, when she told him he would surely beat me to a pulp.

(At this point my story gets nasty, I am sorry but if you don’t like non-consential sex you should stop right here.)

Mother’s pills offered an answer. In those days, before Rock and Roll, The Rolling Stones, marijuana and Hippies, doctors prescribed drugs as if they were dishing out sweets (Candy USA). In the bathroom cabinet mother kept a large bottle of yellow Nembutal capsules alongside a bottle of yellow Benzedrine tablets, (the inspiration of “Mother’s Little Helper” by the Rolling Stones). I looked at the label of the Nembutal, “Take 2 at night.” I took out a dozen, put them in a matchbox and secreted them in my room.

We went to bed about ten. I listened to mum in the bathroom, I slipped the matchbox into the pocket of my dressing gown. As she came out I opened my bedroom door. “Can’t sleep mum I’m going to make myself a cocoa.”

She reacted as I knew she would, “Make me one dear.”

I put the kettle on, spooned the cocoa powder into the mugs, deliberately I choose two of different colours, mine blue striped creamware, hers maroon striped. As I emptied four capsules into her mug I experienced a moment of doubt. “I hope she hasn’t taken any.” I quickly assured myself that even if she had six would only make her sleep better.

After I had taken her cocoa into her I went to my bedroom. Half an hour I guessed and she’d be asleep, another half an hour and she would be insensible. TICK-TOCK the second hand of my alarm clock dragged itself so slowly. I refused to touch my insistently hard cock.

Half an hour seemed like an eternity, but eventually it passed. I opened my bedroom door. “Mum.” I called softly. “Mum.” Louder this time. “Mum!” Still there was no answer. I crept across the landing opened her bedroom door. The bedside light was still on, her mug was empty, she was asleep, the book she was reading had fallen open onto the bed.

I crept back to my bedroom. Now was a battle of willpower. The clock hands seemed to have stopped – maybe when I was not looking they were running backwards! It was only later when I dropped some LSD that I had a similar “time-slip” experience.

I had intended to give her half an hour, but after twenty odd minutes my willpower collapsed. I crept back into her room. Another series of tentative calls, she did not stir. A full blooded roar, “Mum.” Still she slept.

Trembling I cautiously pealed the covers back, pulling them to the foot of the bed. She did not stir. She was lying on her left side, her night-dress covering her body. Tentatively I touched her, she did not stir. Emboldened I gently rolled her onto her back, still she slept in fact putting her on her back had caused her to snore. I lifted her night-dress, exposing her hairy belly.

I spread her legs. For the first time in my life I had a close up view of a woman’s sex. She still did not stir. I dumped my dressing gown onto the bedroom floor. Like a yacht’s bowsprit my cock pointed out in front of me, throbbing as my excited blood thundered into it. I climbed onto the bed, over her leg and knelt between her knees. The dark red outer lips were as Frank Harris had described them.

I touched the fleshy leaves, there was no reaction. When I spread them I saw the delicate coral hues of the inner lips, nestling above the hole was her clitoris, it looked like a fat red sea slug. With my finger I stroked the red lozenge, intrigued I caught it between my finger and thumb and gently made a masturbating movement. I froze when she moaned. She was still asleep I repeated the motion. The lozenge grew and hardened beneath my touch. The coral skin of her inner lips and the entrance of the opening began to moistly glisten.

I had just made my mum cum! I dipped my finger into the moist hole, put them to my lips and tasted her sex.

The throbbing of my cock was painful now. I was so aroused ten, eleven no more than fifteen strokes and my spunk boiled out. I thought that I had cum a lot in the attic, but it did not begin to rate compared to what came out of me now. My heart thundered like a single cylinder diesel as spunk pumped out of my cock in jerky hot jets, like the cooling water that pulsed out with the exhaust from the stern of my boat.

The thick black thatch was coated in my creamy white spunk. I dipped Escort my finger into some and it was thick. Putting my finger into it I began to spread it trailing it down into the slit, bathing her clitoris. No sooner did I touch her clitoris than she came again. Such is the stamina of youth that my cock was springing to attention when it had barely softened!

I inserted a sticky finger into that mystical orifice, not just into the entrance as I had before, but pushed in until the whole finger was in her. I tried a second finger, gently I moved them in and out. Suddenly her muscles clamped on them and they were bathed in her juices. I took out my fingers and licked the heady cocktail – my spunk her cum.

I wanted access to her breasts, but how, if I lifted her to push the night-dress up to her shoulders she might awake. So I contented myself with loosening the bow that tied the neck opening, try as I might I could not expose her breast.

I had lost track of time, I began to worry that she might awake if I stayed much longer, but first I had to get rid of the ache in my balls. Again kneeling between her legs with my right hand I began to rub my stiff cock. The forefinger of my left hand I kept occupied in mother’s cunt. All too soon the spunk jetted from me, coating her stiff brush.

Frightened she might awake I got off the bed. I took a sock from the pocket of my dressing gown. I dabbed at her pubes removing some of the still sticky spunk, but the spunk from my earlier cum had dried starchily on her skin stiffening the hairs. The sheet below her was also stained with already dried spunk that had trickled down that magic slit. I abandoned my attempts to clean her up, pulled down her night-dress and carefully covered her up.

Back in my bedroom the enormity of what I had done really came home to me. When I considered the evidence of my actions I had left behind I sat and shook with fear. Did I regret what I had done? No, I was only afraid of detection.

Six o’clock after a sleepless night I scuttled into the attic, to wait by my spy hole. I had formulated a contingency plan. If when mother awoke she realised what had happened, she would be unable to find me, but I should know she knew. Time dragged in the attic, she did not awake at her usual time. I think I dozed up there in the darkness, which was only penetrated by odd diffused beams of light that filtered under the slates.

Hearing movement my senses sprung into full awareness. She seemed to be following her usual routine, up call me, open my bedroom door, into the bathroom. I could see her now. She was swaying slightly. She peered into the mirror examining her eyes. She turned the bath taps on. Following her routine she sat on the toilet and peed. I held my breath when she pulled her night-dress over her head.

As she lowered herself into the bath I wanted to scream and shout – I’d got away with it! I had enjoyed her body, explored a woman, watched a woman cum, whilst she was asleep I had possessed her. I looked at my watch, it was nearly ten o’clock – those pills really made her sleep, I could have stayed with her for a lot longer.

Mother did not go out that morning, maybe it was because she was still drowsy from the pills, but as a consequence I was stuck in the attic. About two o’clock I could hear no movement, cautiously I lifted the hatch and lowered the ladder wincing at every creak and groan. Having closed the hatch I crept down the stairs. Mother was not in the kitchen, I opened and shut the backdoor and went into the hall opening the living room door I found mother asleep on the settee.

Out I went down to the harbour, looked around aimlessly before returning home. Through the door noisily this time. As I intended this awoke mother, attentively I made us both a cup of tea and cut us some sandwiches. She complained of having a hangover when she had not been drinking, I suggested it might be a migraine attack.

Then I went up to my room, I glanced at the photographs then picked up my guru Frank Harris, from him I would find out what to do next.

That evening mother went to bed early, good it suited my purpose. I went into her bedroom to pull the cocoa stunt again only to find she was already asleep. Frustrated I returned to my bedroom. No sooner had I closed the door than she called me, “Karole is that you?”

My heart leapt, “Yes mum I came in to see if you wanted a cuppa.”

“My head still feels strange, not a headache as such, more just sort of heavy. Tell you what make me a cup of tea and bring me a glass of brandy.”

I was down those stairs in a flash, into the front room, into the sideboard out with one of the bottles of brandy. (In our village spirits were never in short supply as boats often unloaded their catch in French ports or in bad weather French boats would take shelter in our harbour.) Into the kitchen, warm the tea-pot, one spoon of tea for the pot and a spoon for each cup. Whilst the tea in the pot was brewing I emptied some of the little capsules into mother’s mug. Four last night and there had been no ill effects, I decided to give her more five would really knock her out. For my purpose I wanted to be sure she would be really unconscious! To mask any taste of the drugs I added an extra spoon of sugar.

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