Chapter Twenty-Two

Having finished your meal and with Chloe taking it upon herself to complete her homework within the confines of her room, it does not take long for your mother, after having thrown the empty boxes and plastic utensils in the bin, to lead you; by hand, to your bedroom.

The thin curtains that guard the sole window of your shoebox room do little to block the light pollution of NC's nightlife, the sounds of party-goers and vehicles intermixing with blaring music and the activities of other apartments, blending into a continuous white noise that ironically, sets you at ease.

The door closes with a soft click, and it is only the gentle hand of your mother across your torso in a half-hug that stops you from collapsing entirely on the bed, instead contenting yourself with sitting on the edge as the woman's arm eventually pulls away to help her undress.

With the ruffling of clothing, as her pants are pulled away, her blouse unbuttoned and tossed to the side, you behold the matronly figure of the one who gave you life in a matter of seconds.

The lingerie is more than a decade old, and it shows; that though she has taken careful care of the expensive fabrics, one of the few expensive items that your bastard of a father hadn't sold off for drink money, her body has not stayed constant.

Her bra struggles to rein in her bountiful breasts, pushing tightly against the fabric, the elastic stretching and the metal clips almost twitching alongside each heave of her breath.

She is past her prime; motherhood and the stresses of work have taken a toll on her psyche and body; her face, one the sincere desire of your classmates, is not set with wrinkles and stress lines, her crows-feet growing more pronounced each time you glance at them.

Once a flawless tan, her skin has gained an aged look.

Harsh chemicals and the lack of expensive lotions mean they've dried out too often and lost the lustre of youth that once made her glow.

Yet, she is still a physically attractive specimen; you understand that on an animalistic level, her wide hips, her massive breasts, and her face still carry itself with a grace that, though aged, does not detract from her appearance but enhances it; she is not a young filly, but a woman grown.

MILFs are a popular enough fetish and category that she would not find it difficult in that area of illicit filming or activity, a genuine threat which posed enough of a risk that you sought employment rather than allow the family to subsist on such earnings and humiliations.

You lean into her, the woman embracing you, her arms wrapping around your shoulders, a hand pressing against the nape of your neck, before running her fingers through your hair and gripping the back of your head, smothering you in her cleavage.

The scents of strawberry and sweet cherry fill your nostrils, the velvety touch of her breasts threaten to suffocate you within their plentiful embrace, the woman pressing her lips against the top of your head as you become limp, washed away in the comfort of her hold.

She pulls your head back, and you raise your eyes to meet the woman's gaze; that gentle look which locks with yours, those familiar pools you inherited from her, becoming a blur as she locks lips with you, your hands making busywork.

One hand trails down her stomach, the other wrapping around her midriff; a means to tighten your embrace with her, holding her close, the shared warmth of your bodies glazing over your mind in a ritual you've repeated for many years.

You desire the comfort of her touch and the safety of her love; these attentions she lavishes upon you are one of the paltry few ways you can let go of all that ties you down.

Collapsing onto the bed, your head becomes listless, your tongue trapped in a constantly shifting embrace with hers, your arms now encircling her midriff and pulling her into a tighter embrace.

She weakens, her efforts failing, her tongue no longer active, her eyes becoming lidded with lust and exhaustion, so you pull away from your extended kiss and begin to lavish such attention on her neck as her breath tickles your ears, the woman uttering your name again and again.

You feel the pressure of her bra and breasts against your chest, how her legs entwine with yours, thick thighs, corded with a degree of muscle hidden beneath soft fat, clinging to one of your legs, straddling it close enough that you feel the warmth and growing wetness of her core; which presses and rubs against you the more you kiss and suck at her neck.

The layer of softness around her stomach cushions your arms; the one beneath her form grows slightly numb from her weight and the odd angle you have positioned it, but you don't mind.

You don't think, in general, the time for thought and introspection is gone, and as your energy wanes, instead replaced by lust, you cling tightly to the woman, enough that she feels your member press tightly against your pants, but makes no move to remove it.

Come morning, when your cybernetics bring about your brightened Heads Up Display, you wake with a weight pressing against your rumpled shirt, your eyes blinking away the morning weariness and dried mucus.

That weight appears to be your mother's head, her raven-black hair scattered across your form, a few strands even in your mouth, tickling at your sensitive skin; her arms stretched across your body, her legs intertwined with one of your legs, clinging tightly as the smell of sweat permeates the room.

You'll need to open the window and use some air freshener before you shower.

The weight which had been previously pressing upon you from the last two days has dissipated, the warm closeness of you and Emma-no, mom, is something you want to remain in, but you have work; and so with a stiffened heart, and already dreading another tediously mundane shift or emotionally vexing operation, you extricate yourself from her clingy grip.

She lets out a piteous moan that sounds almost like a mewl to you, her hands lashing out to grip your clothes and keep you close, but you persevere, unlatching her hands, pulling away your damp leg from hers and preparing yourself for another day of work.

In your absence, the woman has fidgeted and moved in her sleep; you wonder if she feels uncomfortable sleeping on her front, considering her prodigious breasts ensure she is propped up by at least a few centimetres from the bed.

Yet it is not concern over whether she is comfortable that have you delay your preparations, but the sight of her curved back, healthy skin glistening with sweat, slowly rising and falling with each breath.

Then there is her behind, great hills of flesh, muscle and cellulite that wobbled when she turned over; her lingerie that is traditionally meant to accentuate such curves is now sandwiched between her cheeks, riding high and revealing how deep that crevice goes, bringing back memories of the last morning, when you woke in a situation very similar to what her underwear is now.

Your hand reaches out, groping and manhandling the soft flesh which moves and moulds beneath your tightening grip, the woman letting out sounds, her moans and body slightly undulating from under your ministrations.

Your fingers dig into the valley between her buttcheeks, forefingers rubbing against her anus, causing the woman to spasm slightly, her breath hitching.

In those few seconds, you hook said fingers from under her sandwiched panties, pulling them out to be restored in their original position; you would rather she not wake up with a terrible chafing discomfort; she's not as young as she used to be.