Mother's Adulterous Affections 
(F/M+ cheat)


I cannot escape the first searing and shocking sight of my 
mother compromised. The image is lodged in a particular 
archive in my brain where it remains with sharp clarity, 
though it has been lingering nearly 20 years. My life has 
been coloured by the incident. I will explain, and I can do 
that now because she died three months ago. As best I can, 
it's time to get rid of this stuff.

The image is...hang on, wait a minute. It will make no 
sense unless I back up a bit and put it in perspective. I 
was aged 17, it was a Saturday afternoon and I had come 
home early from Scouts because I wasn't feeling well. As 
was my custom, I came around the back of the house to enter 
through the kitchen. As I looked through the window I saw 
my mother sitting at the kitchen table talking to a man 
standing in the centre of the room. I recognised him. He 
was what you might call a lesser friend of the family. My 
parents saw him and his wife occasionally and they lived a 
few streets away. I stopped to take in this scene and 
decide my course of action. He looked like he was leaving 
and I decided to wait. My mother was wearing a long-sleeved 
pink blouse. I remember it clearly.

Now, that lasting image. She rose from where she was 
sitting and walked across to him. She was wearing nothing 
other than the pink blouse. My mouth fell open. I remember 
that happening, the slack-jawed feel of it. My mother's 
pubic hair was black. There was a lot of it. A hairy black 
triangle at the juncture of her legs. It was the first time 
I had ever seen a female naked from the waist down. Or from 
the waist up, or anyhow anytime, for that matter. And it 
was my mother. Bare-legged and bare-assed, my mother walked 
up to the man, reached up her head and pecked him with a 
light kiss on the cheek. He turned towards the kitchen door 
and I bolted away through the garden.

I look back over so many years and I see it all so clearly. 
My mother was one of those women who do. I've run across 
versions of them. It's nothing you can put your finger on. 
It's all in the way she will meet your eyes and hold your 
gaze. The way she stands, the way she looks, the expression 
on her face. Something tells you she's willing and 
available. There's a certain flat and knowing set to the 
eyes, even a small amusement. Your eyes meet and stay for 
longer than they normally would, and there's a complex 
communication. A signal. It says: We could, maybe, get 
together and fuck.

I didn't know all that about my mother from that first 
sight of her without pants and with a man who was not 
her husband and my father. But I knew it soon enough, 
because from that day I watched her closely. I stopped 
going to Scouts on Saturday afternoons and I found he 
was her regular Saturday afternoon lover. And there was 
another man who came on Tuesday afternoons just after 
lunch, though not every Tuesday, and he was her steady 
Tuesday lover. They both fucked her routinely good and 
proper. I knew this because I heard it and saw it. 

I would set off for Scouts and then duck back quietly. 
First I set myself up in the tree near her bedroom 
window. She and my father had separate bedrooms and it 
was a smart guess but a wrong one. When it became 
obvious she was entertaining Mr. Saturday inside the 
house but not in her room I climbed down, slid through 
the back door and crept around like a thief until I 
discovered she was using the guest bedroom. The door 
was shut but it backed onto my room and, with a glass 
pressed against the wall and to my ear, I listened and 
heard the sounds that could not be mistaken. It was 
muffled and I could hear no talk except for occasional 
dull conversational drone, but the bed sounds could 
not be misinterpreted. Pretty soon this glass-to-the-
wall thing became unsatisfactory and I made further 
plans. But I'll get to that.

You need to know a few things about my family. My father is 
a nice man but flawed. He lives in his own world. Did so 
then, still does now. He's a pleasant man who wouldn't harm 
a fly but he parks himself at a distance from the action. 
He's sold quality furniture all his adult life, first as a 
salesman and later as a store proprietor. He loves 
furniture and adores wood. Any wood. All wood. He is a big 
and friendly fellow with a please-don't-bother-me sort of 
manner and well considered in the community because of his 
work for charity organisations. I take more after my 
mother, with my tendencies to be secretive and circumspect, 
considered in thought and deed, and I inherited more of her 
dark eyes, hair and skin than I received physical 
characteristics from my father. I was an only child.

My mother was almost pretty. She had dark black hair 
cropped to about jaw length, a solemn face with 
wide-apart dark brown eyes, and a wide mouth that 
rarely seemed to smile. She was of medium height with a 
trim figure and shapely legs. Her breasts, when first I saw 
them, were quite small but nicely shaped and topped with 
small brown nipples. She was an undemonstrative woman not 
given to extravagance in her dress. She appeared for all 
the world to be modest and unassuming, and I had thought 
her to be so until I discovered her covert ways.

She and my father slept in separate bedrooms. That in 
itself was not damning of their relationship, but when 
I came to think about it I could not recall any 
demonstration of physical intimacy between them. I 
watched and listened, and he did not go to her bed at 
night and she made no trip to his. They were relaxed 
and friendly together. But that was as far as it went.

I listened for about a month to the stifled sounds of 
my mother grappling in the spare bedroom with Mr. 
Saturday every Saturday and with Mr. Tuesday a couple 
of times, and tried to screw up the courage to improve 
on my observations. I knew what to do. I had figured 
out where to drill the hole in the wall at a high 
point close to the ceiling, how to access it, and how 
to keep it disguised on my side at least. But I hadn't 
managed to progress emotionally to the point of doing 
the job. Then the picnic came along.

It was an annual outing to do with one of my father's 
charity organisations. My father was running the hot 
plate for the steak sandwiches. He always did that. 
Even today he does it. I drifted around aimlessly and 
my mother chatted with the womenfolk. Until a bit 
later, when I saw her chatting with the menfolk. I 
drifted closer. 

She was leaning casually against the boot of a car and two 
men were standing close to her. They were smiling in an 
eager sort of way, as if trying to sell her something. I 
didn't know them. I tried to edge closer to hear what was 
being said but as I was sliding carefully between parked 
cars the three of them moved away. They headed away from 
the carpark, and shielded by the cars, crossed a small 
ditch and headed into the woods. If I hadn't been amongst 
the cars I would not have seen them go.
 
I waited until they disappeared into the undergrowth and 
followed, heading away at an angle to prevent myself 
being discovered. It took a while to find them because 
I stepped quietly and carefully and had to cut back 
across the trail. I heard one of the men talking and 
that gave me the chance to edge forward until I had 
them in view through a dense shrub. I crept into the 
bush and lay flat on my stomach. 

It was the smallest of rough clearings about 100 metres in 
from the carpark and I could see very well. A man, the 
taller one, was kissing my mother. She was standing with 
her back against the broad trunk of a tree. The front of 
her dress was unbuttoned and her bra was unfastened and 
hanging loosely. The man had his hands on her breasts.

The other man was standing to the side. He spoke and I 
could hear him clearly. "Get her to take her dress 
off," he said.

The tall man withdrew from kissing my mother and stood 
back a couple of paces. "Go on, sweetheart," he said 
to her. "Why don't you take it off for us?"

She stood with her back against the tree, her dress 
open to the waist and her breasts mostly exposed. She 
had that look on her face, serious, composed, 
expressionless but for the smallest hint of a smile on 
her mouth. She appeared neither bothered nor 
frightened. She looked from one man to the other and 
then back again. She straightened and took a step away 
from the tree, undid the remaining buttons on the 
dress, and shrugged it to the ground. She drew off the 
loose brassiere and stood facing them in a half-slip. 
"I can't be away too long," she said. She pulled down 
the slip and then her white pants and stood away from 
the bundled clothes.

My mother stood naked in front of these two men I 
suspected she didn't even know before that day. She 
also stood naked before me. Looking back on it, I can 
make the observation she had a girlish figure. Except 
for the seriously thick black thatch of her pubic 
hair. She was 34 years old. No, she must have been 
just 35. I peered out from under the bush, amazed. 
What did she think she was doing?

She did indeed know what she was doing. "We haven't 
long," she repeated, gesturing toward them with her 
hand. They took the hint and grappled with their 
trousers. They both kept on their shirts and they both 
sported exceptionally long and thick erections. Or I 
thought they did. Looking back, I realise they were 
pretty much standard issue. But I was 17 then and I 
thought they were gigantic. 

My mother moved to the taller man and put an arm around his 
neck. She took hold of his stiff dick, ran her hand along 
it, and sank slowly towards the grass, taking him with 
her. She was on her back and she spread her legs to 
accommodate him. I saw her hand guiding his penis and 
the length of it disappeared slowly and evenly inside 
her. He rested his weight on his forearms and looked 
at her face. She looked back at him, expressionless. 
His buttocks moved and then he was sawing into her, 
steadily and regularly. She appeared to do nothing 
whatsoever but lie back and accept him, her legs flat to 
the ground and her arms loosely around the sides of his 
body. After a couple of minutes he muttered 
incomprehensibly and threw up his head, jammed himself into 
her body and wriggled his buttocks around. He stopped and 
hung his head, his longish hair falling forward. "Damn," he 
said clearly. "You got me too excited."

The other man tapped him on the shoulder. He was 
standing close by, holding his stiff penis in his 
hand. The first man withdrew from my mother and stood 
up and the second man moved in immediately to take his 
place. Again she reached down to take hold of his dick 
and guide it inside her. He was much more vigorous and 
started pumping away furiously. I think she liked it 
better that way because she lifted her legs and wrapped 
them around his hips. He maintained the rhythm for quite a 
while and because she had raised her legs I could see 
clearly the way he was ramming into her. Then he too 
reached his climax and slumped on her body. He looked 
tired. The taller man, now dressed, carried my mother's 
clothes to her and the shorter man backed away on his knees 
and stood up.

"I'm keeping these," the taller man said to my mother, 
still on her back. He was waving her white pants. "As 
a souvenir."

The shorter man reached across and grabbed her bra. 
"I'll take this," he said. He pulled up his trousers 
and buckled his belt while the taller man helped my 
mother to her feet. She said nothing. She drew the 
half-slip up her legs and put on her dress. When she 
had buttoned it she moved to the shorter man and 
reached up into a quick hug and delivered him a peck 
on the cheek. She repeated the gesture with the taller 
man. It seemed incongruously polite. I learned from these 
and later observations that she always did this to men who 
fucked her. The three of them straightened and brushed 
their clothes, then walked out of the clearing and back 
towards the picnic area.

I caught up a little later. My mother was talking to 
three women. I looked around for the two men who had 
just fucked her in the bush clearing, and I saw them 
some distance away laughing and talking to two other 
men. All four turned and looked at my mother. She saw 
them looking and quickly turned away. They laughed and 
I saw the taller man had her pants in his hands. She 
found me soon after. "We're going home now," she said 
to me. "We're getting a lift with the Bensons."

I sat in the back seat of the car, my mother beside 
me. I was acutely aware she was wearing no 
underclothes under her dress. When we arrived home she 
went straight to the bathroom and ran a bath. Later she 
joined me at the kitchen table, wearing her favourite 
bathrobe. She sat at the table, looking idly at a magazine. 
The robe gaped open and, sitting beside her, I could see a 
breast and its nipple. She looked up suddenly and caught me 
looking. Her eyes roamed across my face. She had that odd 
flat look in her eyes and she smiled faintly as she 
tightened the robe around her.

My resolve to spy on my mother strengthened. This was 
better than television. This was better than anything. 
I drilled the hole in the wall as planned and covered 
it with a movie poster. The following Saturday, 
perched on a chair placed atop a chest of drawers, I 
looked down on Mr. Saturday as he fucked my mother on 
the bed in the guest room. 

They were easy and matter-of-fact about it, almost polite. 
She undressed and so did he and they kissed for a moment 
and got on the bed. And then they just talked for a bit 
while he fiddled and twiddled absent-mindedly with parts of 
her body. Finally she took him in hand and they got down to 
the fucking business. She guided him into her like she had 
with those men at the picnic and then he was fucking her 
steadily. She looked over his shoulder and up at the 
ceiling with her own little quiet smile on her face. He 
finished before too long and she held him to her with her 
arms around his back and stroked him gently. After another 
few minutes he rolled away and got off the bed. He dressed 
and they talked again while she lay back, naked and 
relaxed. When he was ready she rose herself and went out 
the door with him, still naked. 

I climbed down from my observation post, oddly dissatisfied 
with the lack of drama in what I had seen. There seemed not 
much thrill in what they had done. My expectations had been 
much higher. I waited for about 20 minutes until I heard my 
mother go into the bathroom. Then I crept out of the house. 

For four Saturdays I watched Mr. Saturday in action and 
twice I watched Mr. Tuesday perform on Tuesdays, which 
was enough to bring me to the view that my mother was 
more appreciative of Mr. Tuesday's performance than she 
was of the repertoire of Mr. Saturday. I think she 
achieved orgasm once with Mr. Tuesday. It was hard to tell 
because she seemed quite passive and not at all 
demonstrative, but looking back with the wisdom of 
experience, I think she did. Once. And another time, later, 
and I was certain about that time, but I'll come to that. 
It was the fifth consecutive Saturday I watched Mr. 
Saturday when I was discovered. 

I was standing on the chair set on the chest of drawers and 
stretching just a little to put my eye to the peephole. 
They had finished their business and were moving about the 
room. I waited to see if there was a second chapter, 
because sometimes there was, when out of the corner of my 
eye I saw movement to my right and behind me. I whipped my 
head away from the wall and saw my mother standing in the 
doorway to my room, her hand on the handle. It couldn't 
have been worse. I was perched in a balancing act high up 
the wall of the room, my shorts around my ankles, and my 
hand wrapped around my stiff organ. She stood there, naked, 
looking at me steadily. I froze. What seemed like an 
eternity passed until she stepped back and closed the door. 
I climbed down, pulled up my shorts, and sat on the bed. A 
little frozen ball of ice lay trapped somewhere between my 
lungs and my stomach.

A while later, not long I think, she opened the 
door and came into the room. Her dress was buttoned 
and proper. She sat beside me on the bed. She sighed. 
"I knew you were watching," she said calmly. "I could 
sense it. I looked up and saw the hole in the wall and 
I knew you were there and I know it's not the first 
time." She turned her head and looked at me. "How long 
have you been watching? I want the truth."

"About a month," I whispered.

She just nodded. She stood up. "My bath must be nearly 
ready," she said. She reached out and took my hand. 
"We can talk in the bathroom," she said. I looked up 
at her quickly. She raised an eyebrow at me, which was 
one of her versions, however ironic, of a smile. "Oh 
come now," she said. "After what you've seen, seeing 
me in the bath is practically nothing."

But it wasn't practically nothing at all. Secretly 
watching her getting screwed by different men, spying 
on her, was one thing. Standing beside her in the small 
bathroom while she took off her clothes was completely 
another. I had grown to just about her size. In fact, 
standing shoeless beside me, I found I had actually 
surpassed her. 

She stripped off her clothes methodically, her eyes 
flicking across to me, talking in what I thought were 
unconnected sentences. "You'll be needing an explanation 
for my behaviour," she said, dumping her clothes in the 
wicker basket. She turned and faced me, naked and 
unconcerned about it. "I would have thought you were too 
young." She flicked a glance at my crotch. "But you're old 
enough to masturbate. You grew up that last little bit 
without me noticing." 

She turned aside and reached down to test the bath water 
with her hand, her breasts hanging with gravity, small 
though they were. Satisfied, she stepped into the bath and 
I saw how her black hair curled under and filled up the 
space between her legs. She lowered herself carefully and 
stretched out in the water, nipples breaking the surface 
and pubic hair lapping gently. She closed her eyes and I 
looked down at this woman's body, this woman who was my 
mother. With eyes closed she patted the rim of the bath. 
"Sit here," she said. I sat dutifully and waited, watching.

"I am a woman who needs regular sex," she said suddenly, 
her eyes open and looking at me. "Your father does not 
sleep with me. Has not done so for years." I saw her 
calculating. "Six years. God. That long?" She mused about 
this for a while, her eyes drifting away. "I don't really 
know why. He just seemed to lose interest. We have never 
discussed it." She focused on me again. "Anyway, the 
important thing for you to know is that he knows about 
my..." she paused, searching for a word, "...dalliances." 
She was looking at me keenly. "I am not sneaking around 
behind his back. He knows. He does not know details and he 
doesn't want to know. By not talking about it, he gives 
tacit approval. Do you understand anything about what I'm 
saying?"

I nodded in dull adolescent fashion. She was saying she 
wasn't being unfaithful unfaithfully. Or something like it.

"He's just one of those men who doesn't seem to want or 
need sex," she said. "Even when we did sleep together, he 
was never all that eager for it. It seemed like a duty. So 
gradually I began to become available to other men. I try 
to be discreet. Your father is one of the nicest and 
kindest men in all the world and I would never knowingly 
hurt him. If ever he were to come to me and ask me to stop, 
I would. He knows that. He allows me the freedom I have. Do 
you understand?"

Again I nodded mechanically. I did and I didn't. Well, 
yes, she had a discreet lover or two. But what was 
that stuff at the picnic with a couple of strangers?

"Good," she said. "Things are not going to change just 
because you've been spying on me. At least, I won't 
change. But you definitely will change, because you 
must promise me here and now that you won't spy again. 
If you promise me that, I won't be angry at what's 
happened so far. I can understand a growing boy's 
curiosity. But now that I know, you must not do it 
again. Can I have your word on that?"

I nodded but thought it might not be enough. "Yes," I 
croaked. "You have my word."

And I kept it. For six months or so, anyway. I didn't spy 
on her through the hole in the wall which she had not, for 
some reason, ordered me to cover up. I guess she just knew, 
in the way mothers do, that I wasn't there. 

I didn't spy on my mother again until the night of the 
annual dinner my father threw for his best customers at a 
German restaurant that bought his dining chairs. Even 
though I was 12 places down at the unimportant corner of 
the big table, I could see she and a new customer were 
getting along well together. Nobody else might have come to 
that conclusion but I knew it because I knew my mother and 
I recognised the signs. They weren't having an animated 
conversation. Nothing like it. In fact you could be 
mistaken for assuming they weren't even aware of each 
other. But I could feel the tension from where I sat and 
then there was the dead giveaway - that funny little flat 
smile she had on her lips.

I slipped away from the table for a moment and stood 
behind them, over near the wall and out of the way. 
The man had big shoulders. He was about her age, as 
far as I could tell, and his younger wife was sitting 
across from him, heavily pregnant and with wildish 
corn-yellow hair tumbling around her shoulders. She was 
vibrant and blooming, bursting out of her low-cut dress, 
and three or four men kept looking down her spectacular 
cleavage. I hadn't been able to stop looking at her myself. 
She was an hormonal sunburst. 

My mother, as usual, was dressed conservatively in a dress 
that came below her knees. Well, it would normally, but it 
was bunched up on her thighs and the man with the pregnant 
wife had one hand on her legs. I could see that when I 
crouched down to look beneath the level of the tablecloth. 
As I watched she pushed back her chair, stood up and left 
the table. She walked towards the washrooms but at the last 
moment turned aside and continued out the back door of the 
restaurant. Nobody saw but me. The man also stood up, 
excused himself, and slipped out the side door.

I waited four or five minutes and opened the door slowly 
and cautiously, mindful of my mother's instructions about 
spying but only as far as not getting caught. I slipped out 
quietly and crouched in the darkness. Nothing. Where was 
she? I found her further than the gloomy alleyway, up by 
the wall behind a rubbish skip, and the big sandy-haired 
man was with her as I knew he would be. I was hunched down 
to the ground and I could see little but I could hear them. 
The man was grunting. He was fucking her right up against 
the wall.

"Hurry," I heard her say. "We have to get back before we 
are missed." He grunted louder. "Hurry," she said again, 
and now she seemed to be panting. "Hurry, hurry, hurry," 
she gasped, in time and in tune with the man's grunting.

I backed away, low down to the ground, and just before I 
ducked back into the restaurant I heard her cry out a word. 
"Hurreee," she said, trailing it away from a high pitch.

Soon they were back at the table. Nobody had noticed they 
were gone except the corn-yellow pregnant woman. She looked 
up at her husband resuming his seat and the laughter in her 
voice and eyes faltered for a moment. Then she turned 
animatedly to resume chatting to the man beside she.

Her husband, whose name was Eric Hoffman, became my 
mother's most regular lover. Whatever it was he gave her 
she wanted more and again. For several weeks she appeared 
to lose her normal reserve and restraint. Often she took 
off out of the house without explanation and stayed out 
late. My father, though, said nothing.

Mr. Hoffman came to visit one Sunday evening as my father 
worked the hot plate for a few friends and neighbours. He 
shook my hand heartily and introduced his corn-yellow wife, 
Hilda, now so big with child she was waddling around with 
an arm supporting her stomach. She sat heavily with legs 
spread wide on a chair next to me in the garden and 
flattered me enormously by flashing her strong white teeth 
and appearing to take considerable interest in everything I 
knew and did.

I was telling her about my Balinese-style fishpond 
experiment with its trickling water and bamboo pipes, 
hoping to get her to look at it, when she clutched my wrist 
with a strong hand. "Now you've done it with that water 
talk," she hissed at me, but with a cheeky smile dancing in 
her bluest-blue eyes. "I have to pee in the most urgent way 
and there's a queue at the toilet."

I looked and two women were indeed waiting patiently 
outside the door. "There's another upstairs," I offered.

"Too far and too difficult in my condition," she said, now 
looking quite agitated. "Take me to nice dark and quiet 
place in this lovely big garden, and hurry!"

Away behind the gardenias I kept watch, my back to her, as 
she squatted and let loose a stream astonishingly fierce, 
long, and loud. "Whew," she said when she was back on her 
feet. "This baby sure does insist on making me pee."

I took her hand and headed for the fishpond in the far 
corner, but people were there already. Two people. Her 
husband and my mother. She was flat on her back on the 
grass and he was pounding into her. I froze for a moment 
and then turned away quickly, dragging Hilda with me. But 
she held like an anchor and then drew me to her. "Hush," 
she said quietly into my ear, watching the two of them on 
the grass. She folded her arms around me and her big tummy 
was as warm and solid as a sun-baked boulder.

They finished almost immediately and Hilda pulled me 
quietly away, back the way we came. "Don't worry on my 
account," she said to me. "I already knew about it and I 
don't mind so much. Eric was always going to do something 
like this. What about you?"

"I knew too," I said.

"Don't worry," she said confidently. "Nothing will come of 
it and it will all be over soon."

Hilda had her baby less than a week later, and after it was 
born my mother spent two nights with Mr. Hoffman entirely 
away from home, which was unprecedented. Some weeks later 
she had me dress respectably and took me to the Hoffman 
house in a taxi. Hilda wanted to see me, she said.

"Don't be concerned about her," Hilda told me after my 
mother and Mr. Hoffman had gone off together in his car. 
"We've had a nice long talk and she knows it's coming to an 
end. Pretty soon now Eric will become interested in me 
again." She spoke with absolute sincerity and flashed her 
dazzling smile. "I'm nearly ready to do my thing again and 
he won't want to stray when I do."

She looked tired around the eyes but still wonderfully 
sunny and healthy. The baby, a girl one month old, was 
asleep on a soft blanket on the carpet. Hilda asked me to 
keep an eye on the little one while she took a shower. But 
the baby started crying. I fussed about but she had 
momentum going and was getting into loud and jerky bawling. 
Hilda reappeared, hair wet, in a dressing gown. "It's 
okay," she said to me, because I was near panic. "She just 
wants to be fed."

Relieved I hadn't allowed the baby to come close to death, 
I sat down on the couch. Hilda picked up the baby and she 
quietened instantly. "There there," she said soothingly. 
She sat down on the couch beside me, cradled the child, and 
slipped open her robe to expose a large, white, nipple-
heavy, blue-veined breast. She brought the baby to the 
nipple and turned her head to smile at me. "That's all she 
wanted," she said.

I was 18 and no doubt I was sitting there glassy-eyed and 
slack-jawed gazing at her tit, because she smiled so widely 
she started to giggle. "Ah Jimmy," she said. "Not seen a 
woman breast-feeding her baby before?" I shook my head, 
fascinated by the little mouth puckering at the nipple. 
"Well then," she said. "I guess we can call this lifeclass 
education. Look, she's already dozing off and she's only 
had a tiny bit. I'd better switch her over because I have 
two tanks that need emptying."

Hilda drew the gown from her other shoulder and exposed her 
right breast. She shifted the baby across to the other 
nipple and she fastened on immediately. Her left breast was 
now bare, next to me as I sat beside her on the couch. The 
nipple was pink, wet and turgid. "I don't mind if you  
look," she said. "It's only natural." 

The baby didn't have her mind on the job at all and soon 
she was asleep, mouth open and head fallen back. Hilda 
stood up and leaned over to put the child back on the 
blanket. Her big breasts hung down in front of me. She sat 
back on the couch and made no attempt to close her robe. 
She picked up her left breast in her hand. "It's full of 
milk," she said, showing it to me. "Much more than the baby 
needs. Only it's not really milk, more a sort of glucose." 
She wiped a finger across the nipple, collected a bead of 
clear liquid, and held it out to me. "Want a taste?"

I opened my mouth like a starving bird and she inserted her 
finger, smiling and twinkling at me with her eyes. I closed 
my mouth and licked her finger with my tongue. There was a 
taste, a nothing sort of taste but not unpleasant, and a 
little sweet. "What do you think?" she asked. She appeared 
genuinely interested.

I said it was quite nice. Well, I croaked it. I was feeling 
very tense. "You could have more of a taste," she said. "If 
you want. Actually, it would help me out. Otherwise I'm 
going to have to express." To demonstrate, she scissored 
her fingers against the nipple and milk oozed from it. "I 
have to do that when she doesn't take enough." It dawned on 
me that she was offering her breast to my mouth. I gazed at 
it in awe. "Come on then," she said, urging me with a hand 
on my shoulder. "Put your head in my lap." I wriggled into 
position and she cradled my head, looking down into my eyes 
with a broad smile on her mouth. "Just do what the baby 
did," she said, lifting my head towards the pink nipple. 

I craned forward and the nipple brushed my lips. I opened 
my mouth and took it in, feeling it with my tongue and then 
involuntarily starting to suck at it gently. Liquid came 
into my mouth and I swallowed. I was nursing like a baby 
and it was incredibly soothing and relaxing. I closed my 
eyes.

I don't know anything about being female. I just know what 
I'm told. She told me later, in that frank and open way she 
had, that breastfeeding was erotic. I particularly remember 
she said it made her toes curl. She said she didn't know 
what it did for other women but it sure did it for her. I 
throw in this little piece of information by way of 
explanation for her. I think. It was also true she needed 
to empty some milk. Hilda said that too. I can put the bits 
of it all together now, more or less. Back then, however, 
all I did was nurse peacefully.

Until she put her hand on the front of my jeans, first 
patting and then gently squeezing my erection. My eyes 
snapped open and she was smiling down at me. "Should I?" 
she asked. "Very naughty, but I haven't been naughty in an 
age." 

Without waiting for an answer, and I was too stunned to 
respond other than to fall into the pool of her eyes at 
close range, she undid the metal button on my jeans and 
slid down the zipper. Her hand snaked into my briefs and 
closed around my penis, already throbbing and jumping in 
anticipation. So cool was her hand that my whole body 
jerked. "Shh," she said soothingly, as if to her baby, her 
eyes never leaving mine as I continued to suckle at her 
heavy breast.

Hilda pushed down and spread my clothes and coaxed my hot 
and hard penis into the open air. Clearly amused and still 
looking into my eyes, she started to give me a gentle and 
unhurried handjob. "Shh," she said again. "Don't worry 
about a single thing."

I was as swollen as a beach creek at full tide. In no time 
at all, as I whimpered from the intensity of it, the stuff 
was flowing out of me and all over her hand and my stomach. 
"Ouch," she said sharply. "You bit my tit." But she 
continued to pump slowly and even more oozed into the 
sticky pool of it. 

She eased her cradling arm away from my head and I slumped 
back, dull and stupid, from her breast. She leaned forward 
and cleaned me up with the sleeve of her bathrobe. Then she 
held her hand in front of my face. "Look at all that," she 
said, turning it so I could see my sperm on the back of her 
hand.

Waggling her eyebrows at me mischievously, she stuck out 
her tongue and dipped the point of it delicately into it. 
But then she burst out laughing. "Oh no, look at your 
face," she said, gasping. "I just knew there had to be a 
reason women shouldn't mess with young boys and now I know 
what it is." She laughed again. "Poor Jimmy is so shocked 
at my wickedness."

"No," I said hoarsely. "Honest. I'm just amazed at what's 
happened."

She shrugged the gown back over her shoulders and I got to 
my feet and straightened my clothes. "Well, so am I," she 
said, tightening her belt. She thought for a moment and 
then smiled brightly at me. "It just seemed like something 
I should do. Still friends?"

"Hell, yes," I said.

"Then let's stay that way. Which means it is our little 
secret."

And it was. I have never told the story until now. But, 
sadly, we didn't stay friends. From almost that day Mr. 
Hoffman stopped seeing my mother and that meant I didn't 
see Hilda. A couple of months later I heard they'd sold up 
and moved away. I thought I would be heartbroken but it 
wasn't so, because pretty soon after Hilda I got a 
girlfriend. Or maybe she got me.

My mother didn't like her. A waste of my time, she told me 
candidly. I wouldn't get anywhere with her. Mother was 
right, of course, although I tried for a while. But she 
liked fine the next girlfriend who followed soon after.

"As long as you don't do anything to scare her," my mother 
advised, "this one will reward you in due time."

I wasn't certain what she meant. But dark and serious 
Deborah became the girl who first gave her all to me and my 
mother knew it had happened without asking and nodded at me 
approvingly with her flat and wise smile.

I know it sounds odd but that's what happened. My mother 
was going through withdrawal symptoms and she missed Eric 
Hoffman sinfully. Not that she said so. But she stayed at 
home and Mr. Saturday and Mr. Tuesday didn't come around 
any more. She just didn't seem as available as she once 
was, and not interested.

She was interested in my girlfriends, though, and uncanny 
about picking whether or not they would have sex with me. 
She would always tell me after just one meeting. Obliquely. 
Indirectly. But once I learned how to interpret the message 
properly I was in no doubt.

After two years of this I sat down with her at the kitchen 
table and sought to know. "How do you do it?" I asked. 
"What's the secret?"

"I just know," she said. "Some women, young or old, are 
more interested in sex than others. I am one myself, which 
you know."

"But you aren't any more," I said. "You stopped."

She sighed. "It was time to stop," she said, and got up and 
walked out of the room.

The following year I went away to a university specialising 
in veterinary science. On a long weekend I returned home, 
bringing a new friend with me. Steve was a shy boy from the 
country who'd never been with a girl and didn't know how to 
begin to tackle the problem. We put him in the spare room.

In the night I woke in my old bed and wondered why I did. 
Then I thought I heard a noise coming from the next room, 
the spare room. I listened with my ear to the wall for a 
moment and then climbed up on the dresser like I had not 
done in many years. I peeled back the poster and looked 
through the peephole.

The bedlamp was on, and my mother was on top of Steve, and 
the bed was creaking as she sat on him and fucked him to 
his first climax inside a woman. He lay back with eyes 
closed and arms spread wide, and as I watched she looked up 
suddenly, directly and pointedly at the peephole.

She smiled her little knowing smile.