Sunday Morning 3/3: True, MF, 2nd Concluding: Sunday Morning 3. Out the Door Her grip slowly loosened and our bodies, twined together from head to toe, lay one atop the other. No sounds came from us other than those of our breathing. Even that subsided in time. At some time her eyes had closed, and now she looked almost as if she was sleeping. I hoped her dreams were wonderful ones. Our breathing came together, slowing all the while. There seemed to be little need now for my erection and so I let it subside with our breathing. All my wanton lust was gone and the woman beneath me turned back into a girl. I pushed up from the bed with my arms to relieve her of my weight, she held my back down with her embracing arms; she wanted me to stay. Eventually she opened her eyes and looked at me. I wondered what thoughts were in that head. I hoped they were not for more, not just yet. Her lips broadened to a smile, then, raising her head a little, she kissed me. It was not a full kiss, more an innocent peck. Had she been a few years younger no doubt she would have considered me as her surrogate `uncle'. As it was, it wasn't a lover's kiss. She dropped back and said quietly, "Thank you." "For what?" "For that." I felt confused. What had I done? I had done no more than, as they say, what had come naturally. I had done nothing more than follow my instincts, and made a complete mess of it. My confusion must have shown on my face. "For treating me like a woman and not a girl. So many boys just want to get inside girls for themselves. You know." I wasn't entirely sure I did know. Was she saying some boy, or boys had `got inside her', or just that they had wanted to? I couldn't believe she had been a virgin. Her confidence and straightforward determination to get what she knew she needed told me that. She had been totally unafraid to stand before me naked, totally unafraid to tell me with her hand what I should do. Her orgasm had been uninhibited and wonderfully free from fear or apprehension. Then there was the matter of her hymen, or rather the lack of it, but then how was I, a mere virgin myself, to know of such things. I had little idea, as indeed I still do, of precisely where a virgin's hymen is, or what it feels like, or what it feels like to break it. I knew nothing. "I wanted to get inside you." "Yes, but that was different. You didn't just want it, you needed it; didn't you?" "I'd have lived without it." I realised that was not what she might have wanted to hear. "I mean I've lived long enough without. well, long enough to know there's no harm from being alone." I lifted myself from her, releasing the warm, humid air from between us. She didn't protest, letting her hands slide from my back. I rolled over, the chill of the open sheet feeling harsh compared to the luxurious warmth of her body. The air was filled with the scent of our passion, and the daylight streamed in cutting beams over our heads. Dust danced in the light, myriad specks softly cascading, swimming through the hard shaft. I watched them for a moment as I felt our bodies touch, side by side. I knew how they felt. "Toast?" I sat up, bolting up. "What?" "Toast. Orange juice, tea. Er, I can get something else if you'd like." I grabbed for the covers, clutching them to my chest as if I had been a maiden from a historical novel. I frantically pushed the folds over the daughter. She giggled. "Oh come on, its not like you've got anything I've not seen before. And as for you young lady, it seems like only yesterday that I had to give you all your baths." "Mother!" Now she too grasped the covers to her protectively, and slunk down under them. Laughing, the mother said, "Come on now. Shove over and get this lot down you." The images that rushed through my mind were like something out of a horror comedy show. I saw her open her robe, allowing it to billow like the sails of a majestic tall ship. Where did that wind come from, and why wasn't it ruffling my hair? Her hair turned to snakes and her breasts grew mountainous. She thrust them forward with a cackling laugh, "There, my pretty, take this, all of it!" I blinked. She stood beside me; her robe still firmly fastened. Her hair hung down around her shoulders; she had not yet put it up into its customary bun. "Hurry up, it'll get cold." I shuffled across, pressing my buttocks against the daughter's, she smiled at me and slipped across to the edge of the bed. I reached round and tidied the pillows before somewhat theatrically smoothing down the cover for the tray. "Don't even think of getting in here!" "Why ever not? It is my bed!" No, this could not be happening! "Don't worry. I'm only joking." She smiled and sat on the flattened cover. She turned and placed the tray on my legs. "Toast?" I asked as calmly as I could. "Er, is there any marmalade?" "Somewhere. Though I don't want any sticky fingers in my bed thank you very much." Beside me, still almost fully under the covers the daughter laughed. I closed my eyes and sighed inwardly. "Doesn't anyone knock before coming into a room around here? Who's next? The d... d... dd... dogs?" The mother leant down and picked at the covers with her fingers. Smiling, she drew herself back up, triumphantly holding a wisp of grey hairs, "No, too late!" *** Toast and tea in bed on a Sunday morning. A pleasure like no other. Well ok, maybe not, but a distinct pleasure nonetheless. The smoky, tangy, fruity scents of sex were replaced by the smoky, tangy, fruity scents of marmalade on toast. The two, while similar in words were as unlike as could be. The tea was welcome too. The air filled with the sounds of contented crunching and munching. It was a totally different room from that which it had been only minutes before. That was past, this was now, and now was good too. The daughter took a bite and put the remaining corner of toast down on her plate, resting it on the covers over her thighs. She sat up now, rather awkwardly holding the covers over her breasts with one arm while eating with the other. She sat close to me. I saw her plate wobble, and reached to grab it. She saw it too, but seemed happy to let me play the gentleman. I took the plate and raised it to her. She nodded, smiling, play-acting the genteel lady. The mother turned to reach for her cup that she had wisely left on the bedside unit. She turned, reaching out with one arm while instinctively holding out other to balance. Her elbow knocked my shoulder. I lurched over, knocked slightly off balance. I pushed the daughter, she let go of the plate. The toast dropped. It landed on my stomach to one side of my navel. It landed marmalade down. "Oh I'm sorry!" the mother exclaimed. "Here, let me clean it up for you." "No!" but I was already too late "It's ok, I'll...." She had reached down, slipping her hand gingerly between the edge of the covers and my body, careful to avoid any contact. She dextrously picked up the toast between two fingers and lifted it up, dropping it on the plate that she then took and placed out of harm's way. I sat dead still. Marmalade is sticky and doesn't mix well with bed linen. The daughter giggled quietly at my self enforced awkwardness. Moments later I felt a cold dampness on my exposed flesh. I was a man, and men don't have these things, but mothers invariably do. Useful things apparently - moist wipes. Either she was being extra careful or she was taking liberties, for she could have wiped that marmalade off ten times in the time she took to wipe my body. She scrunged the wipe up in her hand and flicked it over her daughter and me. It described a graceful arc and landed in that other thing that mothers always have, a waste bin in the bedroom. She might have had a bin, but I had something all my own; I had my own flat, but it had never witnessed scenes like this. I laughed gently to, and at, myself. I had feared she might make a move on me. Now it was clear she wasn't going to. The daughter dropped the cover, turning it back in a swift yet gentle movement, exposing a lot more than my stomach. The mother reached down to me, placing her hand on my stomach, reaching lower. I tensed up anxiously. I wanted to say no. I wanted to run away. I couldn't. "May I?" The daughter replied, "Please." Fear kept me silent. Fear of what was happening. Fear that shot through me as the mother's hand slipped through my pubic hair, much as mine had done through her daughter's. I loved this, and wanted it. I feared this and wanted it to stop. The weight in the bed changed as the daughter got out, leaving me alone. I tracked her as she walked to the end of the bed, as every hair between my legs was thrilled by delicate fingers. She didn't leave; she walked round the end of the bed and down the other side to her mother's caressing form. She reached round her mother and released the tie to her robe, pulling the now loose cloth from around her. Her mother lifted her free arm and the daughter slipped the arm of the robe off. Then the mother's once free arm curved round to me. It slipped under my balls and palpitated them with outstretched fingers. Seconds later her other arm was free too, and she rolled over, pressing her breasts against my chest. "Can you feel the fire in my heart?" I swallowed hard. "Yes, I think so." She made it clearer. She reached for my hand, pulling straight it to her pussy that she made more available with a simple lift of her thigh. "That's not your heart." I said in an attempt at defusing humour. "Same difference." Maybe she was right. The heart is traditionally the seat of love. Poets and others have expounded on its glories and revealed its secrets for millennia. All the while keeping almost silent about the passion that burns below. She was alive to it, she had nothing to hide from it, and nothing to hide from me. Her body exuded an urgency unlike anything her daughter, or I, had. She wanted sex, she wanted it bad, and she wanted it now. I was afraid I couldn't supply it. She was obviously far more experienced than her daughter, and she knew her own mind even better, if that were possible. She also knew precisely what she liked. That frightened me. While I was technically no longer a virgin, the reality of my own expression of sexuality was hazy and confused. I was still experimenting, and would be for years yet. I wanted to try this, have a go at that; she wanted me now, her way and wasn't going to take no for an answer. "No! I can't do this!" She seemed taken aback. Despite all my fears, or perhaps because of them, she backed off. "Why? Don't you fancy me?" "No. I mean yes. Of course I do." "Well then what is it? This is my room, my bed. This is my body and I feel I should be able to do what I like in my own room with my own body." "Yes, of course, but not with whoever you want." "Why not?" "They might not want it too." "Yes. you're right." She got up from the bed and went over to where her daughter stood with her robe. She slipped it back on. "I'm sorry. I got carried away. Can you forgive me?" I lay exposed, afraid, alone... but still powerfully erect. I watched in dismay as she drew the robe around herself, covering her pussy. Both she and her daughter were natural, neither shaved at all, at least not that I had noticed. Standing up, the folds of their pussies hid coyly, nestling the dark locks of pubic hair. I wished to part that hair. I wished to fondle those folds. I wanted to caress the lips within and to lick the succulent flesh beyond. I wanted her. "I'm sorry. It was a shock to see the two of you like that." "What?" She stopped. Holding the tie of her robe in her hands. "It was like you two had all this planned. I felt as though you'd tricked me." "Oh no!" cried the daughter, "It wasn't like that at all. I just wanted to help my mother. You know, to share what I had with you." "And I just wanted to...." but she somehow couldn't go on. "Why not take it off," I said. "Pardon?" "Your robe. Please." The mother looked at her daughter. The daughter looked back. The mother dropped the ties and placed her hands on the flaps. She opened it, letting it drop off her shoulders, the fabric running down her arms on to the floor. I looked at her. I looked at her daughter. For all the years there wasn't much real difference. Lighter hair on one maybe, breasts tighter and firmer certainly. Skin clearer possibly, but the look of desire in their eyes was the same, and. yes, the scent, richer even, spicier, darker. Ah yes, the scent. There really was a difference, and now the daughter's came to me too. The two were distinct, even in that room that reeked of sex, and marmalade. "Please may I..." I felt like one of her pupils, though I doubt she'd ever have heard this request in any of her classes, "...I just need to taste you first." Her breasts rose and fell in the sharp light. Her hair shone freely. Her body glowed. My erection tightened and strained. She looked straight into my eyes and stepped forwards to the end of the bed. She climbed on, tucking her lower legs behind her; walking on her knees up the bed. She shuffled over me, not touching me at all. She brushed her hair over me, but took no notice of my stiffness. I felt the heat of her pussy on my stomach as she carried on up the bed. Her thighs straddled my chest. Two more shuffles and she brought her pussy right up to my head. She was wide open, her modest inner lips hanging free, all puffed and open. I reached round, running my hands up along her thighs. "There, take what you need." "Ooo, I will. This is what I need," I said as my fingers sifted over her outer lips and pulled them apart. She reached over me to grab the headboard top rail and lifted herself up to me. My tongue remembered what to do. I went straight for her clitoris hood. Flicking it and licking up and down its shaft, the head buried tight below. She gasped and surged upwards. I tipped my head back, and now that the position was right, slipped my tongue under her and thrust it into her lubricated folds. She rode me, at least that what I imagine the stories would call it. She lifted herself rhythmically up and down, only an inch or so, but powerfully and strongly just the same. She drew in breath noisily through her almost closed mouth. She held her eyes tightly shut. She threw her head back. Her pace grew urgent. "No! Not yet!" she cried, pulling her from me. Her body shook, her hands clawed at the rail, her thighs clasped. "Have you?" I asked in my innocence. "No, Not yet," she replied as she shuffled back down my body. I felt a hand grasp me. I saw her two clinging on to the headboard for support. The hand tipped me forward to contact tight flesh stretched over trembling thigh. Still she moved back, lifting herself up. For a moment I had no idea why. Then, as the contact changed from bare skin to warm slip I knew. "Thank you," she said as two hands clasped her hips and guided her back and down. I grunted as she formed around me. I had expected her to be looser, used and sloppy. Everyone said that young girls are tighter than older women, especially after a child. That's not always true, in the mother's case it certainly wasn't. Maybe it was just the weight of her organs and skin hanging down, maybe it was that she was naturally tight, maybe all women are made that way. Whatever it was she opened around me perfectly tightly. I didn't just slip in, as I more or less had with her daughter. I felt her accommodating within, deliberately opening to me, letting her weight force me deeper. I wanted to thrust immediately, but I kept still, languishing in the sensations surrounding me, bathing in her heat and musk. Then she stopped. She stopped leaning back, and held still, breathing hard. Should I thrust up, or stay still? Was she, like me, feeling the wonderful sensations she was giving? Maybe she wanted more stimulation like her daughter? She had seemed to have loved my tongue. I reached down between us, the back of my hand to my chest. Inside she seemed to open up, become slightly distant even, though her heat and lust remained. She kept her eyes shut, so she did not see my hand sliding over my stomach. Arriving at my own pubic hair I lifted my hand, lifting one finger higher than the rest. My touch must have come as a surprise, she cried out the moment I touched her clitoral shaft. She let go of the headboard and, no longer supported, dropped down fully on to me, almost crushing me. I filled all the space she had created within. To be honest I doubt she had created any space as such at all, rather it was more probably simply a weakening of her grasp on me with her vaginal muscles. I filled her and I gasped out at the sensation. She took three deep breaths and then looked down at me. She opened her eyes and smiled at me, "Thank you," she managed to gasp. Then she reached up to the headboard and took some of her weight from me. Now she began to ride me for real, strongly; the bed creaking under our motion. Her lifts were long, and time after time I nearly slipped out of her altogether. I ached, I strained, I lurched, I thrust to meet her. When I did slip out, a hand from behind took me and guided me back. While another came down from the headboard to bid me to relax. I suddenly realised there was nothing between us. My fear was recklessly not of disease. My fear was of having a daughter, in years to come, while having The Daughter. Even that seemed unlikely; I could not come, even if I had been able, no matter how much I wanted to, and I did want to. Oh god, how I wanted to! "No... condom!" I managed to blurt as the headboard began to knock on the wall. "Stop!" Her head rolled from side to side and looking down as best she could she gasped, "No need. Pill!" Suddenly she ground down on me. Her breath gasped in, out, in and in. I reached up and cupped her breast. She cried out, and she pressed me tightly within. She let go of the headboard and clasped her hands around my body just below the ribs, pressing down strongly. She thrust her head down, opening her staring eyes. She trembled around me, pulses of power deep within surging out - one, two, three-ee-ee, more breaths, four, cry out again, a long cry, but not a loud one as her lungs pumped air out, five and then a weaker six. She trembled and shook above me. Her body took her over completely, the fire within burning her up, consuming her. For maybe half a minute she clasped tightly to me. Her breathing subsided and slowly her composure returned. Oh yes, she had indeed not taken no for an answer. She opened her eyes again, this time they saw clearly. They burned into me and smiling, she leant over, rolling both of us over on the bed. Her manoeuvre took me completely by surprise, apparently it did her too, for it didn't quite come off and we disconnected as my legs hit the sheets. She was in the position she wanted, flat on her back, knees up and bent, me between them, but I was all over the place. I heard a laugh from behind me as I awkwardly drew a bent leg from under me. "What now?" I asked naively. "Take me. I'm all yours." "Am I all yours too?" "Take me and find out." Repositioned above her I drew forwards, hoping that I'd be able to slip into her easily. I should have known better, but then I'd not had much practise. "Here," came a familiar voice, "let me help. I've done this before." I wish I could have said I wanted to take the daughter rather than the mother, but the truth was that this time I felt no guilt, and apart from this slight practical inconvenience, felt rather better about my experience with the mother, so far at least. I had not come too soon, though that was more to do with having come only a short while before than with any skill. She had come too, though that was due mainly to her having known what she was doing, and not letting my inexperience spoil her experience. She knew how to take her pleasure; now it was clear the daughter seemed to have trusted rather more to luck. A hand once more reached to me. I felt it close on me, I felt my the tight ache in my glans. I imagined what it might be like to come inside a woman, I had only ever imagined it so often before. I had of course, but I felt I had somehow missed it, maybe it hadn't happened, though the lack of it happening now spoke differently. "Relax, take it easy. Don't try so hard. There's plenty of time." Was there? I had this urgency drilling into me. `Thrust, thrust, thrust. Come, come, COME!' It shouted. "I don't normally do this," she said quietly. "What?" "Like this. I ought to thank you." "What for?" "For not being so big." There's nothing more likely to ruin a man's passion that a negative compliment, but that's what it was, a compliment. She went on, "I'm not big down there." She could have fooled me, she seemed wonderfully welcoming and had glorious muscle control. "I'm not. Somehow I always seem to pick the big ones. That's why I like it on top." "Big ones?" "Yes, if they're on top they just thrust as deep as they can." `Just like I did earlier in your daughter,' I thought. "They hurt me, over and over. That's why I go on top. I can control the depth. Then you went and ruined it." "I'm sorry." "Don't be, it was wonderful. You went in to your full depth, and it wasn't too much, it was... I needed that." "Not too much? So are you saying I'm small, but perfectly formed?" "No," she said with a smile that carried a look mother's look of `you silly boy' "You're just perfectly formed. I'm the one who's small. I took you then because I needed you so much. I took you and I'm sorry." We were going round in circles. "So why are you still lying there waiting for me?" "I can come again, and I know you need to." I felt the daughter's hand on mine as it supported me on the bed. She held it tight. "You're almost there now," the small voice said beside me. "I'll be with you. I'll be with both of you." The tightness in my glans was gone; the painful rigidity of the shaft having subsided a little. I didn't feel like a `big boy', and according to the mother that's precisely the way she liked me. I lifted my chest and head up, tilting my body so that my hips drove forwards. I slipped in. No, I thrust in. "Yes, that's it. Take your time." I don't know if I did or not. I don't know if it was seconds or hours. I do know she felt as female as and even tighter than her daughter, despite her weight being in different places and pressing on different parts of her. I know she worked within to make my pleasure complete. I know she cried out more than once. I know she held me tight. I know I filled her with my semen, just a little, but I did it in the end. All the time the daughter stayed close to me, holding my hand. Whatever else may have happened I do not know. It all ended with me gasping, grunting, shaking and quivering between her thighs as she quaked, clasped, shouted and heaved with me. *** Later, while the mother and daughter had a bath, I lay alone. I supposed they were, in the words of the song, washing that man right out of their hair. That's why I didn't follow them to the bathroom; I didn't want to wash the women out of mine, I wanted to keep their musk and their memory for ever. The room seemed strange to me, I had never been in it before, not to study it at least. It was filled with alien things, feminine things that made me feel like an intruder, as if I was a thief rifling through their most private drawers for anything valuable. I saw a pair of smooth black panties lying on the floor. I had stolen something more precious than any jewels, and my accomplices were washing their hands of me. My flat beckoned, my bolt hole from the world. It was time to leave. A few minutes later I stepped quietly out onto the stairs and slipped away. From the bathroom came the sounds of pleasurable washing; splashes interspersed with gentle laughter. I passed by, head low. I passed by in the shadow of the stairway, praying to enter the full light of day alone. I reached the ground floor and saw the front door ahead. Just ten feet and I'd be free. Feeling all of the thief of innocence and love that I was I stealthily trod the tiled hall to the door, finally reaching up to open it. The day lay ahead, the rest of my life lay ahead. The light flooded in upon me, painfully bright, eating at my guilt. I stood spotlit by the sun. I stood for all to see that here was a miscreant, a reprobate, one who had satisfied his lust without real love with two women, two who must surely hate me. "Thank you." I died there by the door. "Th... th... than...?" "Yes. I thank you for everything. For being careful and considerate, and for treating my daughter like an adult. She needed that. So did I." She looked pained, as if the effort of opening her mouth to speak was almost too great. "I don't make a habit of this sort of thing you know." The mother went on, "I see so little of her; I felt this would probably be the last chance we'd ever have to do something together - as mother and daughter." I looked at her for a few seconds before nodding in stark realisation. Why had they kept on thanking me? Why? Whatever I had done I must have done something right after all. I now knew it had been a wonderful, amazing, day after all; one I'd never forget, but one that I'd never repeat. "See you at the club next week?" she said, more asking than reminding. "Yes, I'll be there." I turned to go. "You'll be needing the spare room again then?" "Will I?" "I think." I stopped her. "I know I will. Just the spare room. I heard you don't make a habit of some things." Half-smiling, half-sighing, I turned and walked up the path, through the gate and along the road to my car. I didn't hear the front door close behind me. There was no one else about in the balm. It was a little after three in the afternoon. Postscript: I did show up the following week, and the next and the next. Nothing like that day ever happened again. We never spoke of it. A year later the mother met another man. He played the fiddle, how could I compete with that? I took the photographs at their wedding which took place in a country village some hundred miles away. I never saw them again. I went to the wedding with my new girl-friend; the village pub mistakenly giving us a double room, calling her my wife. There would be no mistake now; that though, is another story.