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Scheherazade, the wife of the Sultan Shahriyar, legendary king of Samarkand. From the first night of their marriage onwards, Scheherazade sets out to break the practice of the king, of having his brides executed after the consummation of their marriage. She entertains him with tales each night for 1,001 nights, firing his curiosity by interrupting each tale at a crucial moment in the narrative, and postponing the continuation until the next night.
* * * * * * * *
To start with it was no different from any other Sunday morning except that I knew what I might have to face.
I lay in bed wondering if I could find some excuse to get out of the house and stay out until it was bedtime again, but hearing mother showering, I felt guilty about deserting the situation.
To delay the moment I lay in bed longer than usual and when I did get up, took my time over showering and shaving.
The previous evening mother had revealed that she has sent her latest lover on his way. She had learned that he was screwing a couple of other women, and mother was always adamant about one man, one woman.
“Not that he was all that good as a lover,” she confided in me.
It wasn’t the first time we’d gone through this, and I often wondered why she either got rid of them or they left her. I’d also wondered why none of them had asked her to marry them, or if they had why she refused them.
To start with, she is a damned good looking woman, and I’d often thought that if I was her lover I’d do everything I could to make the relationship permanent. But then, I wouldn’t have liked it if she had made it permanent with one of those lovers because I didn’t fancy any of the men she’d brought home as stepfathers.
Another dread I had was that one day mother would announce that I was to have a little brother or sister. It was only later that I learned she always made her men wear condoms.
Since learning this I’ve often wondered if that was part of the problem; you see, mother is the sort of woman that rightly or wrongly men see as the ideal woman to impregnate; buxom, with beautifully swelling hips beneath a slender waist, and strong but shapely legs.
Her greatest attraction to my mind was her breasts; they seemed to be designed to drive men out of their mind and suckle babies. I once checked her bra size, 42D. They were firm, and when she wasn’t wearing bras and was on the move, they oscillated in that seductive way that makes you look and keep on looking, and you long to see them naked, and caress them and suck their nipples.
I have a theory that some, if not most of the men mother had as lovers, wanted to make her pregnant. I know that’s what I would have wanted to do if I had a woman like mother. Perhaps when they refused to wear a condom she sent them on their way, or closed her legs tightly and refused to let them penetrate her, and it was they who departed. Of course, this is only conjecture on my part, and probably a fantasy based on my own feelings for mother.
I’ve heard it said that most sons consider their mothers to be beautiful. I don’t know whether that is true or not, but I certainly thought my mother was beautiful, and in that sense I regretted she was my mother because it meant I’d never be able to enjoy her seductive body.
* * * * * * * *
To outline the situation; mother is a single parent. She had originally got pregnant to some guy who was already married and wouldn’t leave his wife and kids. I never knew who he was, but I gathered he must have been well off because he paid up for his fun quite generously. That, in addition to mother going out to work, meant we lived rather comfortably.
As I grew towards maturity I came to understand mother’s dilemma. After her experience with the first guy, my father, she never really trusted men. On the other hand I came to realise that mother needed a man.
To put that another way, she had a strong libido and, apparently, masturbating was not sufficiently satisfying. I could sympathise with her over that because masturbating never seemed really satisfying to me either. Just as she needed a man, I needed a woman.
I suppose that a lot of sons in my position suffer the same pangs of jealousy that I did when they know their mother is copulating with some guy in her bedroom. I believe that this applies even when the man is their natural father and they are married, but I think it somehow seems worse when you’re the son of a single mother.
Firstly, you never know if and when the guy is going to become step-daddy, and secondly, there are the times when you can hear what they are doing — the grunts and groans, the squealing and the sobbing cries, “Harder…deeper…do it to me harder.”
I don’t know how many times I’d masturbated listening to them. It was rather like a concerto with me as the soloist and them the orchestra, but somehow we never really completed the performance, or at least for me, it always ended unsatisfactorily. Not, you understand, that I was czech pool porno completely deprived.
There was a fifty year old widow who lived a couple of streets from us. One day she was having difficulty starting her car and I happened to be passing her house. Like a lot of young men I knew a bit about cars, and got it going for her. She was grateful — very grateful — and one thing led to another.
Even when I played a duet with her, and for all the enthusiasm of her performance, for me it never seemed to end with the grand finale I longed for. However, I must give her due credit; she did teach me a lot about playing on that most delightful of instruments, the female sex organ.
But I wander. Another of mother’s lovers had departed the scene, and although this was something of a relief to me, I knew what would follow.
Even when it was mother who finished the affair she always ended up depressed. That depression would continue and deepen until the next lover. It was as if she was carrying around a heavy load, a load that I came to understand was the burden of her sexual needs.
I knew that it would at least in part be my role to help her through her depression, and that help could take some rather strange forms. Often she would say, “Come for a walk with me.” More than once we had trudged relentlessly for miles through pouring rain or other unpleasant weather as she tried to walk her frustration off.
She had an exercise bicycle and she would peddle the damned thing for what seemed to me like hours trying to work off her sexual craving, but the only thing she worked off was some weight, and this she didn’t need to do.
I once had the idea that instead of using a stationary bicycle we should both get ourselves proper bicycles and go riding together at the times of post-lover depression, but then I realised what that would mean for me peddling all those kilometres, so I cancelled that idea.
During the times of her post-lover blues she wanted — almost demanded — my company, even if it was only to be with her as she stared unseeingly at the television screen. I had to sit there watching endless garbage — garbage that apparently she was not seeing.
Of course I could have refused to spend the time with her, but I had the considerable disadvantage of loving her, and l could not face the idea of leaving her alone in her misery.
In the wedding ceremony they talk of “For better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish.” That’s how I felt about mother, and to that extent it was almost as if I was married to her, and I came to suspect that it would be for “as long as we both shall live.” I often wondered if I would ever be able to get married and have a family I felt so responsible for mother.
And so here we were again; another lover gone, mother no doubt depressed, and me feeling responsible. What would it be this time?
* * * * * * * *
I made my way to the kitchen guiltily hoping mother would have already had her breakfast and be elsewhere. She wasn’t elsewhere; she was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of her and reading the newspaper.
I eyed her warily, trying to gauge her mood. To my surprise she did not look as despondent as I had anticipated; on the contrary, she looked quite perky, sitting there dressed in what she called a peignoir.
This was a garment that tended to display more than it concealed. She had several of them, and wore them on only two occasions; when she first got out of bed, and when we were being visited by the current lover.
Its effect on the lover would have been quite amusing if I hadn’t been so aware that she was wearing it for him and not for me. The poor guy was overcome in a matter of seconds, and the one thing — the only thing — he wanted, was to get mother into bed post haste. This might be seen as the overture to the main part of the concert.
I’d noticed that mother would often prolong this prelude. I assumed that this was to heighten anticipation for what was to follow. I had seen guys sitting and staring at mother with a lump in their groin resembling a bell tent. Eventually mother would have mercy on the poor guy and take him off to bed, and there make noisy music for half the night, leaving me to play my forlorn solo.
What surprised me about seeing mother in the peignoir was that it was now quite late in the morning and there was no lover present. The garment always had the effect of making me horny, and in my confusion I stated the obvious.
“You’re not dressed yet, mother.”
She looked at me rather like a starving beggar might look at a leg of lamb hanging in a butcher’s shop.
“No,” she replied in a sultry tone of voice, “it’s so hot, so I thought I’d stay in a state of dishabille.”
“Dish what?” I asked.
“Dishabille darling, a state of being partially dressed or partially undressed, whichever way you want to look at it; but czech sharking porno really Trent, I spent a lot of money on your education and you don’t even know the word — oh never mind. It doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“You mean, does it bother because I didn’t know the word.”
“No, no darling,” she said as if talking to an idiot child, “does it bother you that I’m dressed like this?”
It was bothering me because I could see she was not wearing bras, and her nipples were clearly visible through the thin cloth, but I could hardly say so.
“No…no…” I said, “It doesn’t bother me at all.”
The lie must have been quite obvious because I’d got my own bell tent, and was in no position to attend to its needs at that moment.
Mother’s eyes were looking fixedly at the embarrassing projection as she said, “You look quite hot and flushed darling; don’t you think you’re a bit overdressed for the weather?”
Well, I suppose it was a bit warm but I would have hardly described it as hot.
Mother looked at me shrewdly and said, “You’re up so late it’s nearly lunch time, so why don’t you have a slice of toast and a cup of coffee to fill up the hole, and I’ll get lunch shortly.
Looking at mother there was only one hole I wanted to fill, the forbidden hole.
As I made myself some toast mother asked, “Are you doing anything special this afternoon?”
“Er…no… nothing in particular, why?” I replied, wondering what was coming next.
“Oh, I just thought we might have a lazy afternoon together. We could lie around and listen to some music together.”
“Lie around and make some music together,” I thought, but wanting to assuage mother and keep her in a good mood I said, “Yes, okay, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want ,” she said, giving me another leg of lamb look, and added, “Why don’t you wear those nice shorts I bought you at the start of summer, it’s so hot.”
She seemed to have a hot fixation. I glanced at the kitchen thermometer and it read thirty six degrees, okay, so it was hot but it was destined to get even hotter.
As for those “nice shorts,” I’d hardly worn them out of sheer embarrassment (or was it modesty?). They seemed to have been designed to give a maximum display of testes and penis, and if an arousal was inspired the head of my penis seemed to want to pop out above the waistband.
I’d hardly finished my coffee when mother began to cook a heap of bacon and fried eggs — our usual Sunday lunch; why I don’t know.
This time mother cooked us three eggs each instead of the usual two. I read in some religious tract that we should avoid eating eggs because they gave rise to lustful thoughts and deeds. Perhaps that was why on Sunday afternoons I always paid a visit to my widow, unless of course mother commanded my presence as she had now.
* * * * * * * *
Having waded my way through mother’s prodigal lunch I staggered to my bedroom and changed into the “nice” shorts. I hoped mother would counteract this garment by wearing something modest. I didn’t want to spend the afternoon lying face down trying to hide my swollen manhood.
When she appeared in the lounge, as if with some malicious intent, mother was not modestly attired. She certainly had changed her peignoir for what she called, a “negligee.”
I could never tell the difference between a peignoir and a negligee and I think a negligee was merely a peignoir in disguise, or visa versa. Whether that be true or not, the garment she was wearing had clearly been, with evil intent, designed to generate a maximum erection together with copious pre-cum discharge.
Whatever else it was going to be, it was not going to be a relaxing afternoon for me.
As if to counter that thought, mother said, “Let’s relax darling and enjoy each other’s company.”
I should point out that in our lounge we have a huge divan, well upholstered and cushion strewn. I was fully aware that when I wasn’t present and a lover was, this divan was used for coital purposes as an alternative to the bedroom. I privately thought of it as the “Shagging sofa.”
The damned thing covered almost a third of the room and had been custom made to mother’s specifications.
The divan dwarfed the two armchairs that seemed to cringe away from it as if fearing they might be overwhelmed. The only items in the room that seemed prepared to defy the divan were the television set and a potentially ear shattering sound system.
And so when mother said “Let’s relax,” that being interpreted meant we relaxed on the divan.
* * * * * * * *
So that you may better understand what I had to endure, I think it appropriate at this point to give you a fuller description of mother.
She has a handsome rather then a pretty face; I’ve always thought of it as a model’s face, with its high cheek bones, long, and slightly convex nose, wide, full lips and dark eyes deeply set under strong brows. Her curly, czech streets porno springing hair, is usually held back by two combs and falls over her shoulders.
I could imagine her posed, mouth moistly open, hips jutting and staring at the camera with that apparently obligatory look of arrogant resentment.
Since contemporary models generally have an emaciated tubercular appearance, mother’s buxomness might eliminate her from modeling, but this was somewhat counter balanced by her height at five feet nine.
That Sunday afternoon in the lounge mother, wearing the negligee that revealed more than hid her assets, definitely gave the impression of a very seductive lady. No red blooded male would have needed an aphrodisiac in order to obtain an impressive erection.
Since it was to be a musical afternoon — during which I usually dozed off — mother put a CD in the sound system.
Scheherazade! Ah yes, that sensuous Rimsky-K suite. I think she’d used that with one or two of her more music appreciating lovers. I knew that because a few times I’d come home and wanted to use the sound system and the CD was still inserted and the cushions of the divan were a mess; and so I guessed that the CD hadn’t been the only thing inserted.
Mother flopped down on the cushions beside me and the CD kicked in.
The roar of the Sultan and then Sea and Sinbad’s Ship. Very stirring.
Somehow the fastening holding mother’s negligee had come undone and the front of the negligee was open in a long V shape that ran from neck to navel, exposing half her breasts.
My penis had already been three quarters of the way to full stretch, and now it blew upward and outward to its full extent. It was time to roll over on my stomach, but as I started to maneuver mother, who was humming along with the music, grabbed me and kept me on my back.
Not only had the negligee adopted a V formation, but it had ridden up to expose a considerable amount of thigh, and mother had a considerable amount of thigh to expose. Not only that, but my left thigh and mother’s right thigh had collided, and stayed jammed together.
I became mesmerised by mother’s breasts as, when she took another deep breath to keep on humming they rose, and at 42D there was a lot to rise. Then they would gradually descend until the next intake of breath.
We had got to the Kalendar Prince and by then one breast was exposed almost to the nipple. From what I could see of the nipple it looked as fresh and ripe as a newly plucked cherry.
I asked myself if all this exposure was fair on a horny son who was only doing his filial duty in trying to help his mother overcome her post-lover melancholia.
I decided that enough was enough and a made a move to get away from mother, but by then her thigh that had been jammed against mine had found its way over the lower part of my body, pinning me to the divan. I could have made an effort to release myself, but it would have been an obvious move, and in any case I’d got to like it.
I’d got to the stage where the pre-cum was flowing steadily and it must have been staining my shorts. Mother’s hand started to stroke my chest, her fingers occasionally gently pressing my nipples.
By the time we got to The Young Prince and The Young Princess the temperature seemed to have gone up to around forty five degrees and still rising. By then mother was half draped over me, and abruptly her lips closed over mine, and as our mouths opened to start tonguing each other I felt her hand unclipping the top of my shorts, and the next instant my penis was in her hand.
The kissing and tonguing went on for a long time, and in the process I discovered mother’s breasts were now completely exposed. I started to fondle them, but it was all too much. I broke from the kiss, bent over her breasts, and sucked one of those ripe nipples into my mouth. It was delicious, and I sucked avidly while mother stroked my foreskin over the head of my penis.
I was completely fair to the nipples because I sucked each one in turn.
We had got to the final movement, Festival at Baghdad. The Sea. The Ship Breaks against a Cliff Surmounted by a Bronze Horseman.
As the festival started mother spoke for the first time saying, “Sultan me darling.” It was odd because this was the only words that were spoken during the whole progress of our performance.
Too late I went to move over on top of mother, but she was ahead of me and was on top of me.
My penis entered into the warm wet sea of mother’s vagina and we rolled and heaved with ever increasing fervour.
Then we crashed, me spurting my semen into her while mother screamed. I do not count my groans or her screams as words, although they gave a distinct impression of agony and ecstasy.
The music was drawing to its peaceful close as mother descended from her crescendo into peaceful post-coital calm.
She had asked me to Sultan her, but although there was no story to follow I did not feel inclined to have her killed, but of course, I might fuck her to death. Don’t be distressed; I think the power of her libido is more likely to be my death rather than hers.
In the silence that now ensued we stayed joined at the genitals for some time, but eventually mother withdrew from me and lay beside me.
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