As I lowered my denims and breeches, I felt the cool, dark air assault my previously unexposed area of the body. I felt anxious.
She was facing away from me, now, clad only in her blue, satin panties with their white, lace, trim. She had her right knee drawn up trying to remove her white, thigh-high stocking, using the nightstand to steady herself. Her body was composed of fair skin, a relatively flat abdomen, substantial, weighty breasts which undulated mightily while she performed even the most delicate of movements. Her sturdy hips providing the framework for her full backside which — although perfectly proportionate to her voluptuous body — would have been out of place on a younger, lesser woman.
She turned toward me with the distant, weary expression which only appears to affect large-breasted women, either from the responsibility of their weight, or the burden of man’s attraction to them. She carried this expression with her always, but it was distant now.
She placed her hand on my shoulder and stepped toward me — my firmness pressing against the satin of her panties as the nipples crowning her magnificent breasts pressed against my chest.
I was an eighteen-year-old of average height, but she was two inches taller and seemed more. I had only been with girls of my own age and who were shorter than I. In comparison, Miss Tanner was in her mid-forties and much larger, albeit Junoesque. But she never flaunted her body, on the contrary, her appeal was in her plainness. Never dressing down in order to hide herself, but, she never intentionally showing her anatomical gifts. … And if one were to see any cleavage, or draw any conception of her substantial and perfectly formed backside, it was only by mere chance.
She slid her hand down the length of my arm from my shoulder to my hand — which she took in her own and dragged upward along her body until my palm was on her breast. My hand felt small as it explored the grand curves of her fleshy globe. She watched me intently and I began to feel self-conscious, not sure how far she would let this go. Girls I had dated were often flighty when it came to playing around, often getting me aroused then changing their mind when confronted with what they felt were crude or abrupt advancements. This left me tentative and often kept me from fully letting go in such situations.
But as Miss Tanner — her right hand still holding my left to her breast — reached her other arm around the back of my neck and drew me in, the last image of her mouth — before disappearing against my own — was of a barely perceptible smile. She began light pecks, occasionally taking my lower lip between hers and sucking it gently. Then she placed her mouth fully onto mine and introduced her tongue to me. I had French-kissed a few girls before, but somehow with a woman as old as Miss Tanner, and as mature as she, it felt almost forbidden. I became aware of the time of night and realized that I was alone with this woman in her house, closed away in a secluded room in the home’s basement bedroom, and that there were hours in which anything could happen in this place, at this time, far away from the awareness of others… And the feeling of this was electric in my body. I felt as though everyone in the world was asleep, even God, and this woman and I were allowed total privacy to explore our primitive desires fully and without repercussion.
Her right hand released my left and gently pushed me away to make room for her hand continuing its downward path until it had found the object of her intention, which she lifted and ran her intuitive fingers along its underside. At that point, I was so consumed by passion, I became aware of my heart’s incessant pounding in my chest and found it difficult to fully breathe. I felt the wondrous sensation of her gently gripping then relaxing it before she set into a rhythmic pulling, so methodical and steady, as if she was setting a pace that could last days. Each upward pull seemed to be her attempt at bringing it closer to her bosom.
My left hand lay motionless on her breast as I was consumed by my other senses. She was relentless in her steady motion and her tongue massaged my own while her feminine breath washed over my face and flooded my senses. Her left hand gently rubbing circles on my back, giving me encouragement. My right hand, lying dormant along my side to this point, awakened and reached forward to touch her, finally meeting her upper thigh.
With that, she drew her hand to my shoulder and pushed me away gently, breaking the kiss. Her hand again found mine and she led me two half-steps over to the bedside, where we re-embraced with her lower body pinning my rigidity between us. Without breaking the kiss, she lowered herself onto the bed, leading me to her. She drew one knee up until her foot was on the edge of the mattress to help her move to the center of the bed.
I looked down, and then leaning over, I could see the under region of her thigh and where the outline of her panties met the clefts on either side of her covered mound. The material covering this area I could then see was thinner — woven in fine mesh — and decorated in floral halftones. The shade of her dark hair was visible; I became lost by the sight of this. I leaned closer to her until her knee was against my chest, then I pushed toward her and she responded by pulling her knee in toward her the rest of the way, leaving everything exposed and in full offering.
My right palm instinctively found the underside of her upper leg and my hand spread flat as it roamed downward until she curved. When I found this grand area, I started massaging and moving around the curves, feeling all of her. Then my hand slid across to her soft, panty-covered mound and began gently rubbing it. Warmth exuded from this part of her. Her kissing became more detached until she broke it at once and looked at me. I continued massaging her gently but more firmly and the delicate, pale flesh of her face flushed — either from her sensation or from my boldness.
She grasped my wrist firmly and pulled my hand until it met the mattress behind her and we were at an angle, with me hovering above her, her leg then beside me. She placed both her hands on the mattress and pushed herself back away from me until she sat in the center of the bed with her legs straight out in front of her — her breasts echoing her movements in weighted exaggeration. She patted the area of the mattress next to her glorious hip and winked. A sly smile emerged from her sober expression; she knew that she had full control over me.
Could I go through with this? This was a mother. This was my fallen friend’s mother. Paul, my friend, who I had grown up with, and went through high school with. My friend who had died five months earlier in an auto accident.
Divorced years earlier, she didn’t have anyone to help her with her grief. … And so she had turned to me, Paul’s best friend, to draw comfort immediately following the tragedy — to recollect the broken pieces of her lost relationship with him.
It began innocent enough with her and I looking through old pictures, or watching home movies centered around him, even going out to eat at restaurants they had frequented together. But her loneliness seemed to grow worse with every day. Soon, she was planning things to do, like going to the movies, cooking me dinner, watching television — things unrelated to Paul. Our relationship began to feel different. She no longer treated me just as Paul’s friend, but also as an equal.
From the time I was twelve until now, I have been attracted to Paul’s mom — her beauty, her graceful way of doing ordinary things, her no-frills pragmatism, her womanly curves… I had masturbated to so many women during these years, but she played the “starring role” most often in my mind’s pornographic imaginings.
Ever since Paul had died, she began giving me a hug every time I left her house, but the hugs began lasting longer… And after watching a popular movie on cable neither of us had seen — a movie with some gratuitous sex scenes — we both fell silent.