Good ol' Beer!

Hello, Literotica.

I was recently challenged by a creative writing class to go to a coffee shop and write a story. The mandate consisted of two criteria: that the story itself must cover a timespan of no greater than a day; and that it should be written within about two hours.

According to the mandate, I succeeded. But, given where my mind wandered after the first three paragraphs, I think it's probably for the best that my distasteful concoction stays between you and me. I'll think up something else for the class, I suppose.

- As a side note, I felt like writing this story in British English. I find noble English accents do better for my imagination, and to ignore one's imagination is undoubtedly shallow.

*

From an outsider's point of view, it might have seemed that I was studying in great detail the physics of the bubbles as they floated up through my glass of beer. My gaze was aligned with them for at least a minute before my consciousness was woken by the absurd note of a cuckoo clock telling me that the afternoon was now one hour old. Of course, my brain wasn't really concerned with the bubbles, or even the beer; rather I was just staring into space, as they say. This is what happens when we lose things that are important to us: we just stop, and, instinctively, we take stock and concern ourselves with ourselves, so as not to carrying on losing things.

In my case, I'd lost my wife. There'd been no deaths, nor even any infidelity or some such thing; we'd just grown apart. We married as 18-year-olds and now, as 20-year-olds, we were simply no longer in love. The day before, we'd finally admitted it to each other, after months of tireless bickering. We hugged, stiffly, and I left the apartment and walked, walked and walked before returning to the apartment and a handwritten note from Sally saying she was at her parents' place. So that was that.

I drank what was left of my beer -- about three-quarters of the pint -- and put the glass down firmly and loudly enough for the woman at the bar to take the hint from my expectant smile. From my position in the dark corner of the pub, I looked out towards the door, wondering exactly how many minutes late my mother would be.

"If you arranged to meet someone here at one o'clock, what time would you get here?" I asked the barmaid. "Probably about five-past!" she said, giving me a third pint and laughing unnecessarily.

And, right on woman time, as my mouth was about to address the beer, the wooden door in the distance opened, and through the entrance stepped my mother, complete with shopping bags, and, I must admit, a charmingly tight top as well as a mid-length skirt and crumpled leather boots. She always did have a superb figure -- absolutely superb, I must stress, for those in favour of hourglasses -- and she didn't look anything like 40 years old. Mother bounded towards me, excitedly, waving to me with a big smile.

"How many behind am I?" she asked.

"Eight," I smiled.

"EIGHT?! Oh you're taking the piss. Same old Gabriel," Mum said, dumping her bags next to me, ruffling my hair and walking back to the bar. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and the pub was quiet. Apart from my mother and me, and the barmaid, there seemed to be just one other person -- a scruffy man at the bar. He took a good look at Mum, and I couldn't blame him -- she looked very sexy.

"What time do you call this, anyway?" I asked as she came back with.

"Woman's prerogative! Now, you be nice to your old mother," she played.

"For dressing like that, I forgive you completely," I said, surprisingly openly and matter-of-factly, and Mum raised her eyebrows a little.

"So this is all I have to do to get away with being late!" Mum spread her hands out a little, as if presenting her outfit of the day. "Now I'll know for next time! Are you okay? How are you feeling?"

I just shrugged.

Mum nodded, slowly. "Where are you staying? Do you want to come home?"

"Can I? Just for a few days?"

"Your old bed is still there, and you'll always have a place to stay under my roof, young man."

My sense of relief nearly overwhelmed me. I felt my eyes become a little moister, but then I looked at Mum's big boobs as she leaned forward for her glass. There was no cleavage on show ¬¬-- indeed it was zipped up to her neck -- but the tightness of the fabric over her chest was bordering on the indecent, and it was clear that the white bra had some kind of floral pattern at the cups.

And Mother and I had always been honest and open about sex-related topics, so I wasn't exactly risking getting slapped when I said, "Nice top!" nodding slowly, and playfully lewdly.

"So that's what happened! Sally's weren't big enough! Even when you were a baby you loved big boobs. I remember you grabbing at your gran's big hangers in the middle of a restaurant and shouting 'BOOBIES!' when you were a toddler! She didn't know where to look!"

"I did!" I cracked.

"And then after all that you go and marry a girl with a B-cup. Silly Gabe." Mum was shaking her head, sarcastically.

"Yeah," I said, scratching my head. "Silly Gabe."

"She had no arse either," I loitered on the topic of Sally. "Maybe I was hoping she'd grow one if I gave her enough time."

Finally Mum broke into laughter.

"Never mind, Gabriel. At least we can laugh about it. I'm not really eight pints behind, am I?"

"No. This is my third. What did you buy?"

"Probably a load of rubbish," she said. "Boring trousers for work and a coat for winter," she continued, looking down into a bag: "Oh and these shoes. Do you like them?" She pulled one of the shoes out of the bag to show me.

"Don't they show off a bit too much cleavage?"

"Boobs mad, you are!" Mum said, laughing again.

"Never mind. Let's just do it. A toast, to boobs!" I said -- almost cheered -- raising my glass, and Mum played along.

Frankly, I'd been feeling progressively hornier since Mum walked through the door. She looked phenomenal, what with the way she was dressed, the way her burgundy-coloured hair flowed in waves down to her shoulders, and those damn boots weren't exactly helping my cause either. Our table was glass-topped, so I could see right through it down to her legs, which were uncovered from just above the knee down to just below her calves. I just wanted the conversation to stay boobs-related or at least woman-related.

So I reached forward, holding the glass somewhat close to Mum's chest, and surveyed what I could see.

"Almost!" I said.

Mum laughed again. "What are you on about now?"

"My beer. I think it's almost as big as one of your boobs."

"GABRIEL!" Mum said. "You're not supposed to say things like that to your old mother!"

"True," I confessed, looking down, and then back up as Mum brought her own pint glass next to her chest!

"I think you're right though!" she said, feigning shock. "Maybe I should get them reduced!"

"I'll beat the shit out of any surgeon who goes anywhere near those wonderful globes of yours!" I declared, simulating a proud grandfather at the end of a dinner table, before quickly realising how far I'd gone. Thankfully the dirty old man at the bar didn't know Mum was indeed my mother. "Sorry," I retreated.

"Ha! No, don't worry. I wouldn't do that. These women who complain of a sore back just need to get off their lazy arses and into a gym for a change," Mum said. "Just like your old mother! Look!" she went on, and flexed her arm.

"Good for you, Mum," I nodded, with wide eyes and a smile. I was glad to see she kept active, and I told her so. "But you can't beat this," I said, rolling back my right sleeve and flexing my own arm, drawing back when I realised the barmaid was looking.

"Who are you and what did you do with my skinny son?" Mum mocked.

"Very funny. But there's a gym in the basement, so I go down there every night. It beats being in endless arguments with a wife. But I'm glad you keep yourself active, Mum. Very glad."

"Well," she smiled, "I don't want to get like your dad. He's put on at least 10 pounds in the last six months. He used to be quite trim, you know? You know I met him when he was playing rugby, don't you? Then he stopped playing and never stayed in shape, and you've seen the state he's in nowadays."

"It's funny that you mention shape. I was just admiring your shapes!" I dared.

"You shouldn't be admiring them at all, you!" Mum protested, with perhaps the faintest hint of authenticity. And then her phone rang, and she answered it. It was Dad.

I smiled a resigned smile. Then I grabbed my beer, and, as with the last one, downed the last three-quarters of it. The barmaid was nowhere to be seen, but Mum smiled as she functionally yessed and noed to Dad on the phone. With no immediate prospect of more beer, and Mum tied to her phone, I snickered to myself, leaned forward and comically stared at her chest.

I looked up and Mum's wide eyes were begging me to behave, but I disobeyed and leaned further forward with one elbow on the table and my chin resting on my hand.

Mum's mood had been playful all the while, feigning decorum throughout our get-together, but I was still shocked when she tilted her head and lifted her shoulder to clamp her phone to her ear, and hefted both of her boobs with her hands, presenting them to my gaze. My candour was beaten by hers, and I looked up to her and let my mouth gape. She couldn't suppress her laugh.

"Gabe's making me laugh," Mum said to Dad. "No, he seems fine," she continued, as I stood up, kissed her on the cheek and walked to the bar.

I coughed a keen cough to win the barmaid's attention from her crossword.

"Looks like she was worth the wait, then!" the barmaid said, pouring my pint. I smiled and ordered another cider for Mum.

"Your old man's staying in Aberdeen for a week. Oh thanks." Mum said as I returned with the drinks. "Why did you pick this shithole, anyway?" she asked.

"The pub?"

"Yeah."

"I like the glass tables."

"Are you perving again?"

"Little bit," I confessed, addressing the fresh beer, somewhat light-headedly.

Mum shook her head in mock disgust.

"Don't shake your head. It looks nicer when you shake those," I dared, nodding towards her tits.

And she hefted them up again, just like when she was on the phone, but quicker this time, as if with a tone of finality that said something like, 'Right. You've had your fill. Now behave.'

"You look absolutely spectacular, Mum," I said genuinely and firmly. "Where might I find a woman like you?"

"That's very sweet, Gabriel," Mum said, before reaching back for her phone, and calling a cab. "But this place is still a shithole. Let's go home and let you get reacquainted with your old bed!"

---

Of course I'd been back at my parents' house, occasionally with Sally, since I left for university, but it still felt a bit strange to step inside this time.

"Put your feet up," Mum said. "I'll just go and get changed and then I'll put the kettle on."

"No, just the kettle is fine, Mum. Honestly!" I tittered with a boyish smile, happy with my wit.

"Incorrigible, you are!" Mum said, and she went upstairs anyway.

"Oh not that shit already," Mum complained as I heard her pad her way back downstairs, unhappy that I'd been back home for barely two minutes and already put football on.

"But daytime TV, Mother!" I protested, trying desperately to remain cool as I looked back up at her.

Mother had indeed changed her clothes. She was now in a pink, knee-length terrycloth robe, whose opening displayed a couple of inches of cleavage. I was still horny and, well, I had to adjust my jeans as she went to the kettle in the kitchen.

She came back in and plopped down beside me. "Em'll be home in half an hour."

"K."

"Come on. Put something else on!" Mum whined.

"What? QVC?" I asked, looking dead ahead, a shy shadow of my bashful self from half an hour earlier.

"Give me the clicker."

"No way!" I laughed, relaxing a little.

Mum plopped backwards, and folded her arms like a moody schoolgirl. I looked at her and smiled, and l too sunk back into the couch. It was a two-piece suite, so there wasn't much room between us. Indeed our arms were touching, so I felt her shuffle.

"Gaaabrieelll," she sang, in a quiet, provocative pitch. I looked left, and Mum had shifted her folded arms below her boobs, propping them up and showing a huge expanse of cleavage between the hems of her robe. My eyes felt like they were about to pop out of my head as I couldn't help but gawk. I looked up at her. "Now, give me the clicker?" she asked, firmly.

"You win," I said, handing it to her.

"Oh you men are so easy," Mum smiled, shaking her head.

But I kept hold of the remote, and, just as her hand touched it, I pulled it away.

"Nah. Changed my mind. You love football, remember?"

"Gabriel! Give it to me!" Mum said, almost shouting.

Again, I handed it to her, pulling it away just as it touched her hand.

And that was it. Mum twisted, reaching over as I pulled the remote away, teasing her by keeping it almost within reach. Suddenly she jumped up onto the couch and turned her body about-face, with her legs underneath her, and as I stretched my right hand upwards, away from her grasp, Mum's chest squished itself to mine as she tried in vain to stretch for the remote.

"Give it to me!" Mum wailed, before tickling me with her free right hand. She almost had me, but I gritted my teeth and tickled her back with my left hand, my right hand still holding the remote high up out of reach. Mum retreated to squirm away from my tickles, and squirm and scream she did, falling away from my torso, and I felt the weight of what must have been one of her big terrycloth-encased tits landing on my thigh.

Unexpectedly, Mum jumped back up and grasped at my right wrist, pulling it down and getting both of her hands on the remote. She couldn't tear it out of my grip, though, despite my new preoccupation: my determination to free her tits.

As Mum tried to break my solid grip on the remote, I began to writhe, and with my still-free left hand around her body, I pulled at the back of her robe, ostensibly to pull her away, but truthfully to loosen the robe. I stopped to shriek and tickle her a few times — partly to keep up the pretence and partly to allow me to get a better grip on the remote as she struggled -- before grabbing one end of the tie of Mum's robe.

And so when Mum decided to make a policy of pulling my hand to her mouth and biting at my knuckles, this gave me an excuse to "react" by reaching for her head with my left hand, and, of course, pulling the robe tie out of its knot on the way!

Satisfied with my work, I freed my hand from Mum's hands and mouth, and pushed the remote under my legs. Mum's reach followed the remote, and I discarded it, knowing she'd be able to get it. Now, with both hands, I pulled at the back of her robe at her shoulders, as if trying to pull her away from the remote and keep up with the battle, but with the tie undone the robe was startlingly loose and light, and it lifted way up, away from Mum's back.

"Got it," Mum said, finally, pulling her hand free from under my legs and breathing heavily. She sat up, and looked down at herself. "And you are a very naughty boy," she said with a condemnatory tone but a provocative smile that I'll never forget. She was seated to my left, facing me at an angle, on her own legs and at the edge of the couch, with her robe pooled around her elbows and her bottom and hanging off the couch. Her entire chest and naval, down to her black high-rise knickers, was on show.

Mum kept looking at me as she moved to pull her robe back up her arms, but I reached forward and grabbed it. "Could you just leave it open? Please? There's nobody here."

Mum shook her head. "Gabriel."

"Please, Mum."

Mum shook her head again. And then she reached forward, put her hand over my crotch, and lewdly grabbed my cock through my jeans. Not for the first time that day, my eyes felt like they were about to pop out of my head. "I should have just grabbed this instead. But someone has to switch off that kettle."

Mum smiled at me and stepped up off the couch, leaving her robe behind. The tension in the air was incredible, and I could almost hear my own racing pulse in my head. What was also incredible was Mum's big arse, which was barely covered at all by her briefs. It'd been a long time since I'd seen Mum's arse all those years ago when I last went on holiday with her and Dad and she wore a swimsuit. As I mentioned earlier, Mum's figure is an emphatic, no-holds-barred hourglass: big, jiggly boobs, a small waist and a big arse with wide hips. I confess, occasionally in throws of sex and orgasm: I'd always wanted some of Mother.

I watched Mum as she walked away, around the back of the couch, and I swivelled around and swiped her arse, catching her on a soft right bum cheek as she passed to go into the kitchen.

Mum squealed. "I should be the one doing that to you, don't you think?" she panted, still a little drained from our exertions.

"Good point," I agreed. And I jumped off the couch, brazenly loosening my jeans as I followed her around and into the kitchen. "Here you are!" I said, presenting my arse ready for a spank.

Mum howled in laughter! As I bent forward, I heard her open a drawer and then an almighty thwack as she whipped me much harder than I expected. I turned around and it was a wooden spoon!

With my jeans threatening to fall off completely, and Mum wearing only her skimpy high-rise knickers, I reached for the spoon but she pulled away, and we were back to the old game but with the roles reversed. Mum had her back to me and she giggled as I reached around, grabbing at her arms reaching for the spoon which she expertly juggled away from my grasps.

Finally I grabbed the spoon, but Mum shocked me by letting go of it and reaching back for my crotch with her left hand. "Honk!" she cried playfully as she squeezed my manhood twice.

"Oh yeah?" I asked, and grabbed one of her big, soft, floundering boobs. "Honk to you too!" I said, somewhat shakily, surprised at my own mischief.

"Hahaha!" Mum cackled. "You naughty boy! You haven't grabbed that since you were a baby!"

"How about this one?" I asked, groping the other one!

"Gabriel! You bad boy!" Mum exclaimed in mock horror, jolting upwards so we stood together, with her bare back to me. Her left boob was still in my left hand.

There was a pregnant pause when Mum and I seemed to take stock of our position. I impudently lifted my right hand back to Mum's free breast and grabbed it again, making symmetry with the other side. And again, there was another pregnant pause.

"You like them, don't you?" Mum asked. Her hand was still on my crotch, but she loosened her grip, lifting her hand up towards the undone buckle.

"Yes. Fucking yes."

"What have I told you about swearing?" Mum's hand slipped inside my jeans.

"Sorry, Mum. Remind me," I said confidently, moving my fingers and palms, groping her tits and tweaking her pale pink nipples. She moaned a little, and I jolted involuntarily as her fingers touched my cock.

"Fuck it," she said.

"Fuck what?" I asked, abruptly letting go of her big right tit, and pushing my jeans off and down to the floor. The tip of my erect cock wedged itself between Mother's arse cheeks.

"Swearing. Fuck swearing, you bad boy," she whispered.

"Can I fuck you first?" I asked, snaking my hand over Mum's hip with my right hand, as my left hand continued to molest her left breast.

"You want to fuck me? Your mother? With this thing?" Mum hissed as her hand roamed over my cock, and as I cupped her damp mound, toying with her button through her sodden knickers.

I said nothing. I stepped back, out of Mum's reach, and hurriedly yanked her panties down over her big, round arse, causing it to jiggle with the force. I bit her cheek as I reached down, and followed up by grabbing it with both hands, mauling and squeezing it, spreading her cheeks apart, before smacking it hard, twice, three times. Mum's arse wobbled as she screamed at the stings. I smacked it again. I was like a man possessed. "Gabriel!" Mum screamed.