Not Yet But Now 13

Not Yet But Now, Ch. 13 of 15
by Dirty Pierre

I enrolled for university some distance from home. At the start of the academic year I moved into a share house with a bunch of other first-year students and immersed myself in a life of filthy bathrooms, even filthier refrigerators, and discarded pizza boxes. It wasn’t without its compensations in terms of liberty, beer, music and the intense analysis of burning social issues. Mum took this in good part, and our being separated sharpened our appetites for each other when I did return home for the occasional weekend.

Alice had found work in the marketing department of a multinational conglomerate that produced everything from baby powder to air compressors. She travelled frequently, and though she saw a bit of Mum I don’t think I saw her but once or twice in the space of that year.

As far as university romance was concerned, I did manage to slip an enquiring hand into the panties of one or two potential victims, but had no appetite for the pairing-off that seemed to be rife among the student cohort. Or maybe I just hadn’t met the right girl: the one with the heart of gold who behaved like a debauched whore on the slightest pretext.

During the year, Grandma’s faculties faded further, and she had to go into an old folks home, where daily she realised anew the loss of her mate. It was desperately sad. Mum visited her regularly, I infrequently, and she generally mistook me for my father.

Towards year’s end, Mum broached the forthcoming summer with me.

“Would you like to go away on holiday this year, darling?”

This was not a frequent occurrence for us by any means. Not that we couldn’t afford to do it, it just didn’t seem to happen. I’d made no plans.

“Where to?”

“I’d like to go to France again. How about you?”

I knew that at some distant point Mum had been to France before; she’d spoken enthusiastically about the place from time to time.

“I suppose so, I mean, I can’t think of anywhere else I particularly want to go if we’re going to fly somewhere.”

The thought of international travel had never really crossed my mind. I suppose France was as good as anywhere else.

“You will love it, darling,” Mum enthused. “It’s the most wonderful place.”

Apart from getting my own passport, I left it all up to her. With no expectations I joined her at the airport on the day of our departure direct from my filthy student hovel.

“My darling,” she cooed, embracing me and kissing me open-mouthed as we met in the departure lounge.

“Ooh, Mum, really!” I murmured, returning her kiss. “Sure you want to draw attention to us like this?”

“Sorry, darling, but I’m just so excited to see you, to be going on this adventure together. A whole fortnight together: bliss!”

In the plane we carried on like young lovers, touching and caressing each other, swapping little kisses and tickles. We drew several disapproving stares, though I dare say that they’d have been even more disapproving if they knew the true nature of our relationship. Arriving in Paris, we took a cab to the 20th Arrondisement, where Mum had chosen a hotel in the lee of Montmartre.

“Bonjour, Madame, votre nom?”

“Bonjour, Monsieur. Le nom est Campbell, Andrea. J’ai fait une reservation il-y-a quelques semaines.”

“Ah oui. J’en ai trouvé. Et Monsieur?”

“Mon fils, Pierre.”

“D’accord. Vous voulez deux chambres, alors?”

“Ah, non. Un seul.”

“Bon.” The manager hesitated. “Avec deux lits.”

“Non. Un grand lit, s’il vous plait. Et une sale de bain ensemble.”

“Comme vous voulez, Madame,“ the manager said stiffly, handing over the key. “Numero trente et un.”

“Merci, monsieur,” Mum responded brightly. “Come, darling, let’s go up.”

“What was that all about?” I asked as we waited for the clanking lift. “He seemed to get a bit snotty.”

“No idea, darling. I was just making sure we have our own bathroom. So many of these places only have shared facilities, you know.”

Our bags were brought in by a lanky Gallic youth in what once may have been a uniform, but was now a grubby threadbare jacket of indeterminate green, several sizes too small. He stood sniffing by the door, rubbing the toes of his dirty leather shoes on the back of his trousers, expectant.

“Ah, votre nom?” Mum asked.

“Jean-Claude, Madame.”

“Jean-Claude, pouvez-vous nous apporter une bouteille de champagne, s’il vous plait?”

“D’accord, Madame.”

He slouched out, untipped.

“What’s that, Mum?”

“I’ve asked him to bring a bottle of champagne.”

I drew her close, and we kissed passionately, pulling at each other’s garments, reaching for the heat of each other’s crotches. My shirt was half-out, and both the buttons on Mum’s blouse and her bra were undone when Jean-Claude returned, entering unbidden after a perfunctory knock at the door, and setting down the ice bucket, the bottle and glasses.

“Ah, merci Jean-Claude,” Mum said, nibbling my earlobe as she unhurriedly disengaged from our embrace and picked up her bag. “Tiens,” she continued, handing him a note or two.

“Merci, Madame,” he replied, looking up and down at her dishevelled state, his face a little brighter now that currency had crossed his palm. I locked the door behind him and we resumed our embrace.

“Get naked, Mum. I need to fuck you.”

“Oh darling, yes.”

We watched each other disrobe, feasting our eyes on each other’s slowly revealed bodies. Mum’s body was doubtless a little older than when she first seduced me, but still so shapely, so ripe. The years had been kind to her, and we do not in any event choose to see imperfection in those we love. This, the woman who bore me, so tender and yet so very dirty, so loving, so filthily exciting.

“God, your cock’s so beautiful, darling”, Mum purred, moving to embrace me again, rubbing her furry pussy against my hard rod. “Oh, I need you to take me with this gorgeous thing again…” She began softly stroking me, nuzzling into my neck.

“Fuck, Mum, I want you so much.” I ran my hands over her arse cheeks, pulling her in close and grinding against her. “It feels like it’s been forever.”

Mum turned and stepped to the window. Drawing the curtains, she opened the window wide and bent forward, placing her hands on the sill. The sounds of the Paris afternoon drifted up from below. Her tits hung low; her spread legs partly disclosed the hot nest of her crotch, both cunt and arsehole, while her slightly bent knees told of her readiness to be joined, to accept my pulsing cock in delicious incestuous union. I moved in behind her, bending over her back and rubbing my engorged cock up and down her slit.

“I love the way you display yourself, Mum,” I whispered, reaching around to feel the weight of her heavy tits in my hands. “It’s so hot: offering your arsehole and your cunt like some horny animal.”

“But I am,” she replied breathily, “I’m so fucking horny for your cock, to mate with you…Oh yes,” she said, as I sank into her cunt. “Mount me, darling. My stallion…oh how you fuck me…”

The afternoon light slanted across the room, leaving much of it in deep shadow. But we coupled squarely in the sunlight, displaying ourselves to any who might care to raise their eyes. We fucked before the window slowly, luxuriously, both already so excited and close to orgasm that any moment might bring us over the edge. I drew Mum upright and mauled her breasts as she turned her head to kiss me wetly and bite at my lips.

“Anyone could see,” I said, noting the obvious.

“I know. I want them to. I want them to see my handsome stallion of a son mating with me…”

I forced Mum’s head forward again, making her hang on to the window frame, and cupped her cunt with one hand and her hip with the other as I thrust myself into her.

“Oh fuck yes!” she moaned, her big tits swaying freely, “Take me with your hot cock! Breed my cunt, darling!”

“Oh Jesus, Mum! You make me so fucking hard!”

“Yes, darling, oh God my body was made to carry your babies, fuck me…”

“Mum, God, you want me to…?” I had never heard anything so exciting, and if I had any sense at all of impending danger it was drowned in the urge of something altogether more primal.

“Yes, yes! Fill my cunt, flood my womb with your sperm, put your baby inside me!”

“Oh Mum, oh God, oh fuck…!”

As I erupted into her boiling cunt, Mum reached around, clawing at my arse to pull me in tighter, moaning in blissful acceptance. “My mate, my baby, my lover…”

We staggered to the bed to recover, and as Mum lay back with her hair awry and legs akimbo in an air of dazed warmth I opened the champagne.

“To us, darling,” she smiled as we clinked glasses.

“To us,” I agreed.

We drained them off and cuddled. I kissed along her throat and she held a breast to my mouth to be sucked.

“My love,” she murmured as I drew her nipple between my lips and ran my fingers lightly through her pubic hair.

“Mmm, my beautiful mother,” I responded. But there was something I needed to clear up.

“Mum, you know when you said about babies, ah, was that serious?”

She took my cock in her hand, lightly squeezing and stroking it. “Oh darling, I was meaning to discuss this with you, but it’s so long since we’ve made love and when I saw your gorgeous erection all hot and hard for me I couldn’t resist…”

“Which has to do with?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, for so long, I’ve wanted to have your baby, our baby, and I know I should have…I’m forty three, and I won’t be able to forever, I mean, my period is still regular as clockwork but…Wouldn’t it be beautiful to have your baby inside me, to feel it growing…”

“Oh Jesus, Mum, but that’s, ah, fucking huge…”

“Oh I can look after it, sweetheart, truly, it won’t interfere with your studies or stop you from doing the things you want to do, you know, but I don’t want to be too old before we, before I have it…”

“So, can I think about this?”

“Of course, sweetheart, of course.”

“And you’d be going off the pill?”

“Ah, well, I already have, darling; Please don’t think it’s too wicked of me. Truly, I wanted to tell you, but when you were so very hard just now…”

She bent her head to take my now-stiffening cock in her mouth, sucking on it and jacking it to hardness with the wetness of her saliva. Holding it in her hands, she looked back up the bed at me, rubbing it over her face and making little noises of pleasure, licking its head and smiling lasciviously at me.

“I want to fuck your arse,” I growled.

“Oh no!” she replied in mock fear. “Not my little arsehole. That’s too dirty! I could never let anyone do that.”

Meantime, of course, she was squirming round to present her puckered hole to me.

“There’s some lube in my bag,” she ventured, “But I don’t want you smearing it on my anus and forcing your cock up there.”

Of course not. I squeezed a liberal amount from the tube, and applied it to her hole.

“Ooh, that’s cold!” she protested, wriggling back onto my fingers.

“Not for long. You’re going to feel this sliding up your arse, right up your shithole.” I rubbed my cock between her cheeks and pressed the head gently at her back door.

“Never!” Mum protested, burying her head in the pillows and beginning to finger herself. “It’s too filthy for words…I’m a mother, you know. I have two children; surely you wouldn’t?”

“Unnatural, isn’t it? The abominable crime, mother…”

“Oh, oh,” Mum whimpered as I pressed forward, but of course she was opening her sphincter to me, her arse greedy to be filled. “Rape me, my son is raping me…”

“Yes, I’m taking your filthy arsehole, filling it with my cock…”

Mum raised her head and pressed back to grind herself on the tool now buried in her hot rectal depths.

“You love that don’t you, you dirty bitch?”

“Oh no, no, no,” she moaned, tugging at her nipples and tossing her head.

“Take it, take it, take that cock!” I grunted, grabbing her hips and jabbing into her. “Take it in deep you filthy whore…”

I raised her up so that she had one knee and the other foot on the bed, her crotch now presented at an angle so I could get my hot tool into her sideways. She grabbed the bed-head with one hand to steady herself and masturbated with the other as I continued to plough her arse. Cum leaked onto my thigh from her gaping cunt and I clutched her tits, digging my fingers into her flesh and cruelly pulling her down onto my cock.

“Ah! Oh!” she cried.

“You like your son raping you, do you?”

“Oh fuck yes…”

I nuzzled my face into her hair and bit her shoulder hard, making her squeal.

“Like that, do you, you cunt?”

“You beast, fucking me like an animal, raping my arse with your gorgeous hot meat!”

“Invading your hot arsehole…”

“Oh yes…”

“Cumming in you, cumming in your arse you nasty cunt…”

“Oh yeah, use me, use my fucking hole…”

“You like it? Like me pumping my sperm into you?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Mum was practically shrieking as we came. While we didn’t hear any banging on the walls, that may have had more to do with the hour of our incestuous tryst than the volume of our performance. It was very liberating to fuck so noisily, as if, in this world of strangers speaking another language, they couldn’t possibly understand what we were doing. Both sensing this, we lay back and laughed, before knocking off the rest of the champagne.

After a short doze we got up and dressed to go out. Neither of us bathed: we preferred to wear our fuck-crust for the time being, happy to wallow in traces of cunt, sperm and arse. These fascinated the dog apparently owned by the proprietor of the bistro at which we ate, which took a particular interest in Mum’s crotch as we entered.

Apologies from le patron smoothed things over, and we much enjoyed our first truly French meal: steak and chips (which is to say, their infinitely more sophisticated relation, frites). And several glasses of passable red wine, before we returned to the hotel and slipped into the land of nod well fed, well watered and, in my case, well emptied.

Early next morning, while Mum was in the shower, there was a knock at the door. It was the maid. Slim and dark, about my own age. She was not dressed as one might have hoped: there was no little cap or impossibly short skirt or crotchless panties, not even a frilly white apron. No, she wore jeans and a cream blouse that, it must be said, had a very pert pair of smallish breasts straining within it.

“Pardon, monsieur, I am ze sister of Jean-Claude. I am ‘ere to do ze room.”

‘Oh, yes, alright, fine.” In my hastily donned dressing gown I surveyed the generally rumpled state of the place.

She began gathering our discarded clothing off the floor.

“You are ‘ere wit’ your maman, monsieur?” She picked up the panties Mum had worn to dinner. The crotch was well plastered with the remains of the previous day’s couplings.

“Ah…yes, yes.”

“My brozzer he tell me you make love wit’ your maman?” Her eyes were the pale blue that one only sees in France. They sparkled with wicked interest.

“I-I’m not sure I understand you.”

“Oh, it is very sexy, monsieur, si chaud l’amour entre la mère et son fils, entre frère et soeur, fille et père…”

Mum emerged naked from the tiny bathroom, still glowing with just-fuckedness, though it had been several hours.

“Oh!” she started.

“She’s just asked me whether we make love, Mum. She says something about it being “very sexy.”

“Well, she’s a forward little thing, then, isn’t she,” Mum replied, standing hand on hip in her proud mature nakedness, looking her up and down before addressing her.

“Comment tu t’appelles, m’selle?”

“Colette, madame.”

“Notre relation t’interesse?”

“Ah, oui, Madame,” she began quietly, “Parce-que moi-même et mon frère, nous sommes aussi des amants…”

Mum’s look softened. “Ah,” she responded. “Delicieux…”

“Mum, what’s going on?”

“This young minx is apparently interested in us because she is involved in an incestuous relationship of her own, with her brother.”

“Really?” This morsel of intelligence made me regard the girl with new interest. Could I detect signs of sexual depravity just by looking at her? Did her enjoyment of illicit connection with a sibling somehow transform her pleasant but unremarkable appearance into that of a sex-mad temptress? Probably not. And yet, images flitted through my mind of her spreading her slim thighs to wriggle onto rampant cock, of her face being sprayed with hot semen. On the other hand, just because she was fucking her brother did not mean that she also enjoyed having her arsehole drilled and filled with his incestuous jism. For all I knew it might have been Saturday nights only, missionary position and lights off.

Such thoughts raced through my head in instants. I was brought back to reality by Mum’s advance upon me. She turned my face towards her with her hand under my jaw and pulled sexily at my lower lip with her teeth.

“Oh, Madame, quelle chaleur…”

“T’aime ça, Colette?”

“Madame, oui.”

I knew this much: Mum was teasing her, and her eyes were wide with something, but whether heat or horror I could not say.

“Je vais lui sucer la bite,” Mum continued, opening my robe, “Regardes…”

“Mum!” I protested, trying to hold on to my now deeply threatened privacy.

“Ssh, darling, I’ve just told her I’m going to suck your cock. I’m going to give the little slut something to remember us by.”

Mum was on her knees before me, reaching into my robe and taking my cock in hand. Colette stood off to one side, biting her lip. Mum looked at her and rubbed my cockhead over her face, making a great show of licking my stiffening stalk from balls to tip.

“Tu veux te masturber, Colette?” she asked. “Montres-nous ta petite chatte.”

She began to suck my cockhead and jack me slowly up and down. Meantime, Colette opened the waist of her jeans and pulled them down to her knees, before perching on the end of the rumpled bed. As Mum sucked and played with me Colette began to touch herself through the pretty pale blue panties she was wearing. A little moist line soon appeared along the crotch.

“Regardes, Colette, la bite de mon fils. Il etait juste dans mon cul,” Mum purred, pausing to look her in the eye while she continued to stroke me “Si pleine du sperme pour sa maman.”

“Oh, Madame, c’est si chaud…” Colette responded, her fingers now working busily inside her panties.

“You have no idea just how hot, you little pute. Je t’ai dit montrer ta chatte, ma puss.”

Colette hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her panties and pulled them down to show the surprisingly hairy clam between her legs.

“Oo, c’est jolie, Colette; hasn’t she got a pretty cunt, darling?” Mum asked, before taking me back into her mouth. As I watched Colette fingering herself Mum took me deep, long strands of saliva streaming from her mouth as I felt my cockhead at the opening of her throat. I shucked the robe off my shoulders and gripped Mum’s hair, fucking her mouth, both of us revelling naked in our nasty sexual display for this young stranger.

It did not take me long to reach orgasm, my semen pulsing into Mum’s mouth and then over her breasts as she leant back and milked me over them, murmuring triumphantly, encouraging me to drench her flesh in my seed.

Colette’s excitement, too, was evidently reaching a pitch. She watched this lewd display with a look of utter fascination, her fingers working frenziedly between her legs, making little “Ah, ah” noises.

Mum stood and moved across to her, presenting her gooey tits to the young woman’s mouth.

“Regardes, Colette, regardes le jus incestueux de mon fils, le sperme chaud d’inceste. Leches, leches-le de mes seins, ma petite salope.”

Colette leaned forward eagerly, licking my semen from Mum’s tits, moaning and tracing its pearly streaks with her tongue, her hips bucking uncontrollably as her climax overwhelmed her.

“You won’t forget this, will you, you little slut,” Mum said gently, bending down and drawing Colette’s mouth to her own. “Alors,” she continued as Colette came up for air, “Maintenant, ranges la chamber, s’il-te-plait.”

And with that, Mum began dressing for the day’s exploration of the city of light as if nothing at all had just transpired, as casually as if Colette were not there.

They say that Paris is made for lovers. It is not hard to believe. Our wanderings towards the Seine and the Jardin des Tuileries in those few days brought us upon little squares here and there, populated by small children with African governesses or slim harried mothers and the cool youth of the city, engaged in an infinitely complex mating ritual. And, every now and then, a couple given over to passionate kissing and the sharing of secrets. We counted ourselves among the last.

Although once or twice she came upon us fucking, there was no repeat of our performance for Colette. Nor did we encourage the greater familiarity assumed by Jean-Claude in the wake of his sister’s little interlude with us. At our departure, Mum gave Colette a peck on the cheek, asking, “Tu, ah, tu nous te-souviendras, ma puss?”

“Toujours, Madame, toujours,” she replied with a naughty smile.

“Well, she says so, and I imagine she will remember us, darling”, Mum said to me, as we descended to the reception desk in the creaking lift. “After all, not every girl is lucky enough to lick your semen from my breasts.”

Mum was exceedingly keen to visit a naturist resort on the Atlantic coast. “We could fuck on the beach, darling”, she enthused. I was lukewarm about the idea: my pale flesh is not at all suited to prolonged cooking in the sun. So, we settled upon four days at the Cap d’Agde.

We arrived at dusk and, the following morning, sauntered to the sand. We found ourselves amongst a host of odd-shaped bodies, principally fat leathery Dutch and Germans, as far as I could tell. Mum certainly had reason to indulge her exhibitionist streak among this lumpy, unprepossessing crowd. She drew quite some attention, strutting onto the beach with nought but a thin gold chain around her waist. If it had been a competition for desirability, she’d have had few rivals here.

Some of us are made to enjoy lying on the sand: Mum is one. Ordinarily, by summer’s end she was quite deeply tanned all over, except for the tiny bikini lines that arched over her hips and framed her pussy. This only served to emphasise her sexuality: the preserved triangle of paler flesh was so small, so immodest, hiding only her neatly trimmed fur and her cunt lips themselves from general display. But at this early stage of the season, her skin was uniformly olive. Mine, by contrast, was a sickly white.

“Would you mind putting a little lotion on me, sweetie?” she asked with false innocence. Quite plainly, she wanted a little show. Back first, as she sat cross-legged in front of me on her towel. Then she turned round so that I could anoint her breasts, leaning back on her arms and thrusting them upwards for general appreciation. I obliged with slippery hands, squeezing her tits and plucking at her nipples quite unnecessarily. When she lay back I gave a similar performance for her legs, lifting them and having her twist from side to side as I reached her thighs to ensure that I protected her bottom, pussy lips and arsehole from the ravages of the sun by liberally applying cream to all.

Thus prepared, she turned her attention to me, slowly massaging my back and feathering little kisses on my neck.

“I bet one or two of these fraus wouldn’t mind a ride on this,” she said, applying cream to my cock and thickening it considerably as she stroked it in the interests of sun protection. I did notice a few not-so-subtle glances in our direction. I suppose the sight of a highly attractive middle-aged woman publicly masturbating her much younger lover was of natural interest even to the jaded European perverts surrounding us.

Mum then knelt facing me as she ran her hands over my chest.

“The guy behind you is getting an eyeful,” I told her. She wiggled her bottom and arched her back.

“Do you think he can see my arsehole?” she asked.

“I should imagine so.”

“I’ll flex it for him, give him a thrill.”

“Looks as though he’s getting a bit excited.”

“Really? What’s he doing?”

“Adjusting his dick, no, he’s having a tug.”

“Filthy animal! I suppose he can see your cum from last night dripping out of my pussy: I know I can feel it.”

“Nasty Mummy!”

“Aren’t I?” she laughed, bringing herself upright again and thus concealing her intimate openings from his gaze.

We settled on our sides to read, both of us keeping the onanist in view. He was about 50 I suppose, with cropped salt and pepper hair and a pot belly somewhat smaller than many thereabouts. He, too, was on his side, turned away from the female behind him. And was not making too much effort to conceal the fondling of his thin erection, openly ogling Mum’s body from less than ten yards away.

“What a dirty man,” Mum murmured, “He’s looking at my breasts.” She casually ran a hand over her right tit, feeling its heft. The Pavlovian response was predictably immediate: he stroked his cock more swiftly.

“He’s like a bloody dog, isn’t he?” I said.

“Yes, it’s disgusting. Imagine what he’d be like if I were playing with my clitoris.” And, holding her book up in one hand and pretending to read, she began to do just that with the other.

He gasped involuntarily, squeezing his member tightly, his eyes glued to her teasing fingers, before resuming stroking himself.

“He looks about ready to cum,” I whispered to her.

“Yes, I think he’s going to ejaculate,” Mum agreed. “It shouldn’t be allowed. Ew! Look at that nasty stuff squirting out of his penis. Oh! And again! Yuck. It’s dribbling all over his hand.”

He had spurted a couple of times into the sand. The rest of his cum, as Mum said, just oozed slowly out of his cock, dripping from his clenched fingers. These he jammed into the sand beside him when he’d finished, trying to rub off the clinging evidence.

“Pig,” Mum commented dismissively, turning to her book.

“What’re you reading?” I asked.

“The Story of O; a French classic, dear. It’s entertaining, if a little old fashioned.”

“Oh who?”

“Just ‘O’, the heroine.”

Mum went on to outline the plot, as far as she’d gone.

“But,” she concluded, “The poor girl is really treated rather cruelly. I think being chained up and beaten more of a Continental taste than something I’d enjoy. It’s quite perverse.”

This judgment was perhaps a bit rich, coming from her.

“What about you?”

“It’s called ‘Daddy’s Little Helpers’.”

“Oh? What’s it about? Do-it-yourself projects?”

It was actually a pornographic work we’d picked up at a small shop in Pigalle.

“No. It’s the absorbing tale of a father’s incestuous relationship with his twin teenaged daughters.”

“Pff,” Mum scoffed, giving her attention to her book once more, “That’d never happen.”

We settled back behind our dark glasses to soak in the warmth, chatting idly. After a while I took the opportunity to return to an unresolved issue.

“Ah, Mum, this baby thing,” I began.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I just don’t know: I’m awfully young to be having children.”

Considering the volume of semen I had deposited inside her in the last few days, this may seem a consideration I might have brought to mind a bit earlier.

“Oh, I know you’re young, darling, but as I say, you needn’t worry: I will look after him. Or her. I promise. It won’t interfere with your life. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“But that won’t change the fact. And what about things like names: who’s the father going to be? I’m assuming you don’t want either of us jailed.”

“That’s easy: some anonymous French stud with whom I had a one night stand on holiday. Except,” she added, dropping her voice, “It’s really a multi-night stand with my handsome son. But no-one else will know that.”

“And what if there is some dreadful genetic problem?”

“Oh, that’s grossly exaggerated. I’ve researched it thoroughly, and there’s really nothing to worry about, any more than it’s worth worrying about dying in a plane crash.”

She was quite wrong on that score, as I’ve since learned. But whether by ignorance or design, she was telling me what I half-wanted to hear. “But what about, say when I come home for the weekend.”

“Think about it. We don’t spend out entire lives in bed, do we darling? And babies sleep a lot. We’ll still have plenty of playtime.”

“And then babies grow up into kids. And start asking questions.”

“But we’ll have plenty of time to think of answers. You will be his or her much older brother; I will be unable to ever find the father, things like that. And besides, you’ll probably be married by then, not tied to my apron strings. And it’s not as though I’ll be the only single mother in the district.”

“Okay, true, but most are teenagers, not women your age.”

“Women my age? Old enough to know better, you think?”

“And what are your friends going to say? And Grandma?”

“Well, Grandma is so vague now, I rather doubt she’ll even notice. And my friends? Look, darling, there really aren’t many I’m close to, only one or two, Cissy and Eva probably. They will raise their eyes, but I imagine they’ll stick with me. The others, well, c’est la vie.”

“It’s a big gamble though.”

“Not as big as you think, darling. And look, it’s not as if we have to make a commitment forever now: I can always have an abortion if we finally decide that’s for the best. I mean, if I did fall pregnant, that is.”

“You’ve got it all worked out, then?”

“No, sweetie, not at all, not in that way. But I have thought about it a lot, and it’s not going to be, it wouldn’t be as difficult as you fear. And besides, your baby is bound to be so beautiful…”

She rolled close to me and offered me her mouth. I accepted, slipping my arms around her and kissing her lasciviously with much open mouth and duelling tongue, rubbing my chest across her slippery breasts, both of us moaning quietly as I ran my hands down her flanks. I suspect that her exhibitionism was catching and we were both performing for the neighbours to some extent. I did notice a few guttural noises behind us that I took to be their speech. And, looking up as we finished our embrace, I saw with a little pride that one or two other German sausages were now poking stiffly from beneath distended brown bellies.

Mum leant in close.

“Do you want to impregnate me, darling?”

“OK, Mum,” I murmured, “Let’s go and fuck.”

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Chapter 14 >>

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One thought on “Not Yet But Now 13

  1. Another great instalment Pierre, thank you for a delightful and arousing story. I even had to engage my brain and use my high school French, which always makes a orgasm stronger hehe xxx

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