Don Russell - Mother every way

"Darling!" she whispered. Her desire had ballooned in the brief moments of his touching her until it overwhelmed everything else. She loved Art and all the physical excitement and imaginative stimulation she'd enjoyed earlier in the night coalesced around that love in a pounding heady ecstasy. She couldn't hold still. Her hands left his face and caressed the sides of his body. She rubbed her legs on his. Her hips twisted and her shoulders flexed. And she moaned low and continuously.

Art lowered himself, guiding the nose of his cock into the embrace of her labia, then thrust urgently, plunging it through her rim and into the heart of her vagina. Clutching her to him, he rolled with her so he lay on his back and she lay astraddle his hips. He seized her buttocks and stroked her on his cock, jerking her entire body back and forth. Her breasts surged on his chest while his body hair harshly scrubbed her nipples. He pried her asscheeks apart and fingered her rectum, dipping his finger into the fluid at her cunt and lubricating her with the juice.

"Art! Art, baby!" Helen crooned, abandoning herself to her most sensuous longings. Her clitoris rode on the rocky base of her husband's cock and drove her into spasms of delight. She tightened her buttocks convulsively when she felt his finger plunge into her rectum, and then a new wave of thrills forced her thighs to their widest angle and brought a deep groan of pleasure from her throat.

"This is where it's at, baby," Art muttered between grunts. "You being all woman and me all man."

"Art, baby," she said with a hiss. "Fuck me!" She said it reverently, using the words to seal a bond between them she hadn't been able to accept before. With it, she promised him her hidden Helen.

He pounded her on his cock, his hips driving in opposition to her motion until the convulsions of orgasm swept her and the heat of his cum seethed in her belly.

"Ahhh!" She clenched her teeth, then opened her jaws wide. "Aghhh…! Nnnh…! Yes, yes, yes!"

Her tension exploded and she writhed with the force of her contractions. And even while she sobbed her pleasure at Art, the awesome sensations faded and she began to go limp. She collapsed, muscle by muscle, lying quietly on her husband with the fullness of her cunt and her ass still the only firm realities in her universe.

"I love you, darling," she whispered.

"Yeah, sugar. I love you, too."

They clung to each other. Art reeking of satisfaction and she trying to keep the memory of her great pleasure uppermost in her mind. His breathing quieted and grew increasingly regular, until a faint snore told Helen he slept. She squirmed cautiously off his cock and pulled the covers over them. After a long time, Art stirred and when he turned, she slipped off him and settled onto the mattress. She stared at the ceiling, not caring that the light was still burning, and let the night's events filter through her mind.

In trying to change her husband, she'd changed herself. Not changed, though, she insisted silently. I can't pretend I don't know myself. I'm what I was before Grandma died. She faced the fact bleakly. That's the me I've been trying to hide – no, to kill – all this time. That was the lustful, physical self, she decided; and she stripped away her old defenses to weigh her discovery. I can't be both. There can only be one, either the modest, spiritual one or the lustful, wicked one. And Art wants me lustful.

She watched a speck on the ceiling – an insect to small to identify – make its way across the featureless surface, neither digressing nor wandering from its straight line. It only goes one direction at a time, she reflected. It knows where it's going – instinct maybe – and it goes. All right! I know I want Art! I know what he wants me to be. So that's the me I'm going to be.

She slept, dreaming of her new role and waking often in a panic at the nature of her dreams. When light came and she gave up further effort to sleep, she wasted little time on introspection. She reiterated her decision and conceded the change would be difficult. She knew it herself; every influence in her background had contributed to make her abhor halfway measures or attitudes. Her entire mental foundation consisted of blocks that were platitude and truisms. "There's no such thing as half right."

"If you start to do something, do it all the way."

"You can't live on both sides of the fence."

She missed Dan at breakfast. Art's exuberance was the only thing that salvaged the meal. She thought she'd not seen him as enthusiastic and warm since their marriage. After he'd left the house, she turned to her never-ending dusting and vacuuming with a glow of satisfaction in her decision. Despite that crutch to her morale, however, there were times during the day when she felt she was experiencing a bleakness even worse than she'd suffered when she became pregnant with Dan. And she felt sharp pangs of guilt over having shunted Dan off the night before. As a gesture of restitution, she baked bread and cookies in the afternoon.

Danny appeared to have felt the situation as strongly as she. He was early. "Shortcuts," he offered when she remarked on the fact. And he was effusive, hugging her affectionately before letting her see the way his nose wiggled at the scents that floated from the kitchen. She kissed him again, then watched his broad shoulders sway as he hurried toward the smells, his black hair swishing on his neck. The day was a good one after all.

With her tensions dissolving, she sighed and remembered she hadn't had her bath. She called to Dan that she'd be in her room for a while and went back to draw water in the sunken tub. She poured a double portion of bubble-bath and began to undress. As an afterthought, while she was knotting the belt on her dressing gown, she loosened the knot, slipped out of the severe garment and laid it aside.

Not me, she thought. That's the old modesty. She went to the radio on the dresser, tuned it to an FM station with a program of the older, romantic music, and went back to the bathroom, shivering at her nakedness and leaving the door open so she could relax to the music. She slipped gratefully into the water and sank into the mounds of bubbles. It was a fine day, she decided, and it would be even better when she had her man at home.

"Mom…! Mom…!" Dan's voice came from the other end of the house.

"Yes?" she called.

It appeared he hadn't heard her. He continued to shout, no urgency in his tone, as he roamed the house looking for her. She smiled. Always, she thought. Always the same. And it doesn't matter what he wants to tell me. It's just being able to when he wants to.

"Mom!"

"Yes, Danny!"

"Oh, Mom?"

"What?"

He could tell her from the bedroom, calling through the open doors. It would never do to wait, she reflected. Not for Danny.

"I'm in here," she called.

"Oh. Okay." He'd reached the bedroom, she decided. "Hey, Mom. I wondered if…"

She gasped. Danny loomed in the doorway, his eyes getting round as he realized she was in the tub. He appeared to be paralyzed, his gaze fixed on her suds-flecked breasts and his mouth still open.

"Mom! I…"

She realized suddenly she'd been paralyzed, too. With a burst of motion, she slid down into the water until only her head remained exposed. "Danny!"

"Gee, Mom! I didn't know… I mean, the door's…"

"It's… it's all right, Danny. My fault. Never mind. What was it?"

He shuffled from one foot to the other, his face flushed.

He doesn't know what to do, she realized. He can't sink through the floor, and turning around and running would be too undignified at his age. He's trying to figure out how to appear casual – how to look blase about it all.

Dan drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Crossing to the toilet, he seated himself on the closed lid and leaned against the tank. "I get it, I guess," he said.