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Subject: {ASSM} Sunday Morning 3/3: True, MF, 2nd
Date: Wed, 12 Apr 2000 21:10:40 -0400
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All rights remain with the author. Possession of a copy of this text
does not imply permission to distribute it, other than for no fee and in
its entirety, including this notice.

This story is true and autobiographical. Truth though is in the eye of
the beholder and as this is my story, it is also my truth. It happened,
just as you are about to read, over ten years ago. I still sometimes
wonder if it was just a dream, something I imagined or pieced
together from countless fantasises. It *is* in my real experience; it
does not contain many of the absurd conventions of fantasy sexual
encounters. Judge it by the measure of your own experience, for it is
in mine.

This story is for adults, however that might be defined in your
country. In mine everything recounted below is legal. Compared to
many stories of this type it is probably tame in terms of 'steam', but
for
all that I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. I
needed to write it;  to allay the ghosts of my memories.

Joseph Lawrence, Copyright 2000

This is the final part of three. Looking back I still don't really know
why all this happened. Maybe the daughter had been going through a
difficult time with her boyfriends and needed to be reassured about
her atractiveness and sexuality, maybe that was true of the mother
too. Whatever events had triggered this I cannot tell, all I can tell
is what happened.


Concluding: Sunday Morning

3.  Out the Door

	Her grip slowly loosened and our bodies, twined together
from head to toe, lay one atop the other. No sounds came from us
other than those of our breathing. Even that subsided in time. At some
time her eyes had closed, and now she looked almost as if she was
sleeping. I hoped her dreams were wonderful ones. Our breathing
came together, slowing all the while. There seemed to be little need
now for my erection and so I let it subside with our breathing. All my
wanton lust was gone and the woman beneath me turned back into a
girl.
	I pushed up from the bed with my arms to relieve her of my
weight, she held my back down with her embracing arms; she wanted
me to stay.
	Eventually she opened her eyes and looked at me. I
wondered what thoughts were in that head. I hoped they were not for
more, not just yet. Her lips broadened to a smile, then, raising her
head a little, she kissed me. It was not a full kiss, more an innocent
peck. Had she been a few years younger no doubt she would have
considered me as her surrogate `uncle'. As it was, it wasn't a lover's
kiss.
	She dropped back and said quietly, "Thank you."
	"For what?"
	"For that."
	I felt confused. What had I done? I had done no more than,
as they say, what had come naturally. I had done nothing more than
follow my instincts, and made a complete mess of it. My confusion
must have shown on my face.
	"For treating me like a woman and not a girl. So many boys
just want to get inside girls for themselves. You know."
	I wasn't entirely sure I did know. Was she saying some boy,
or boys had `got inside her', or just that they had wanted to? I
couldn't
believe she had been a virgin. Her confidence and straightforward
determination to get what she knew she needed told me that. She had
been totally unafraid to stand before me naked, totally unafraid to tell
me with her hand what I should do. Her orgasm had been uninhibited
and wonderfully free from fear or apprehension. Then there was the
matter of her hymen, or rather the lack of it, but then how was I, a
mere virgin myself, to know of such things. I had little idea, as indeed
I still do, of precisely where a virgin's hymen is, or what it feels
like,
or what it feels like to break it. I knew nothing.
	"I wanted to get inside you."
	"Yes, but that was different. You didn't just want it, you
needed it; didn't you?"
	"I'd have lived without it." I realised that was not what she
might have wanted to hear. "I mean I've lived long enough without.
well, long enough to know there's no harm from being alone." I lifted
myself from her, releasing the warm, humid air from between us. She
didn't protest, letting her hands slide from my back. I rolled over, the
chill of the open sheet feeling harsh compared to the luxurious
warmth of her body. The air was filled with the scent of our passion,
and the daylight streamed in cutting beams over our heads. Dust
danced in the light, myriad specks softly cascading, swimming
through the hard shaft.  I watched them for a moment as I felt our
bodies touch, side by side. I knew how they felt.
	"Toast?"
	I sat up, bolting up. "What?"
	"Toast. Orange juice, tea. Er, I can get something else if
you'd like."
	I grabbed for the covers, clutching them to my chest as if I
had been a maiden from a historical novel. I frantically pushed the
folds over the daughter. She giggled.
	"Oh come on, its not like you've got anything I've not seen
before. And as for you young lady, it seems like only yesterday that I
had to give you all your baths."
	"Mother!" Now she too grasped the covers to her
protectively, and slunk down under them.
	Laughing, the mother said, "Come on now. Shove over and
get this lot down you."
	The images that rushed through my mind were like
something out of a horror comedy show. I saw her open her robe,
allowing it to billow like the sails of a majestic tall ship. Where did
that wind come from, and why wasn't it ruffling my hair? Her hair
turned to snakes and her breasts grew mountainous. She thrust them
forward with a cackling laugh, "There, my pretty, take this, all of it!"
	I blinked. She stood beside me; her robe still firmly fastened.
Her hair hung down around her shoulders; she had not yet put it up
into its customary bun.
	"Hurry up, it'll get cold."
	I shuffled across, pressing my buttocks against the
daughter's, she smiled at me and slipped across to the edge of the bed.
I reached round and tidied the pillows before somewhat theatrically
smoothing down the cover for the tray.
	"Don't even think of getting in here!"
	"Why ever not? It is my bed!"
	No, this could not be happening!
	"Don't worry. I'm only joking." She smiled and sat on the
flattened cover. She turned and placed the tray on my legs.
	"Toast?" I asked as calmly as I could. "Er, is there any
marmalade?"
	"Somewhere. Though I don't want any sticky fingers in my
bed thank you very much."
	Beside me, still almost fully under the covers the daughter
laughed. I closed my eyes and sighed inwardly.
	"Doesn't anyone knock before coming into a room around
here? Who's next? The d... d... dd... dogs?"
	The mother leant down and picked at the covers with her
fingers. Smiling, she drew herself back up, triumphantly holding a
wisp of grey hairs, "No, too late!"

					***

	Toast and tea in bed on a Sunday morning. A pleasure like
no other. Well ok, maybe not, but a distinct pleasure nonetheless. The
smoky, tangy, fruity scents of sex were replaced by the smoky, tangy,
fruity scents of marmalade on toast. The two, while similar in words
were as unlike as could be. The tea was welcome too. The air filled
with the sounds of contented crunching and munching. It was a totally
different room from that which it had been only minutes before. That
was past, this was now, and now was good too.
	The daughter took a bite and put the remaining corner of
toast down on her plate, resting it on the covers over her thighs. She
sat up now, rather awkwardly holding the covers over her breasts with
one arm while eating with the other. She sat close to me. I saw her
plate wobble, and reached to grab it. She saw it too,  but seemed
happy to let me play the gentleman. I took the plate and raised it to
her. She nodded, smiling, play-acting the genteel lady. The mother
turned to reach for her cup that she had wisely left on the bedside
unit.
She turned, reaching out with one arm while instinctively holding out
other to balance. Her elbow knocked my shoulder. I lurched over,
knocked slightly off balance. I pushed the daughter, she let go of the
plate. The toast dropped. It landed on my stomach to one side of my
navel. It landed marmalade down.
	"Oh I'm sorry!" the mother exclaimed. "Here, let me clean it
up for you."
	"No!" but I was already too late "It's ok, I'll...."
	She had reached down, slipping her hand gingerly between
the edge of the covers and my body, careful to avoid any contact. She
dextrously picked up the toast between two fingers and lifted it up,
dropping it on the plate that she then took and placed out of harm's
way.
	I sat dead still. Marmalade is sticky and doesn't mix well
with bed linen. The daughter giggled quietly at my self enforced
awkwardness. Moments later I felt a cold dampness on my exposed
flesh. I was a man, and men don't have these things, but mothers
invariably do. Useful things apparently - moist wipes.
	Either she was being extra careful or she was taking liberties,
for she could have wiped that marmalade off ten times in the time she
took to wipe my body. She scrunged the wipe up in her hand and
flicked it over her daughter and me. It described a graceful arc and
landed in that other thing that mothers always have, a waste bin in the
bedroom. She might have had a bin, but I had something all my own;
I had my own flat, but it had never witnessed scenes like this.
	I laughed gently to, and at, myself. I had feared she might
make a move on me. Now it was clear she wasn't going to.
	The daughter dropped the cover, turning it back in a swift yet
gentle movement, exposing a lot more than my stomach. The mother
reached down to me, placing her hand on my stomach, reaching
lower. I tensed up anxiously. I wanted to say no. I wanted to run
away. I couldn't.
	"May I?"
	The daughter replied, "Please."
	Fear kept me silent. Fear of what was happening. Fear that
shot through me as the mother's hand slipped through my pubic hair,
much as mine had done through her daughter's. I loved this, and
wanted it. I feared this and wanted it to stop.
	The weight in the bed changed as the daughter got out,
leaving me alone. I tracked her as she walked to the end of the bed, as
every hair between my legs was thrilled by delicate fingers. She didn't
leave; she walked round the end of the bed and down the other side to
her mother's caressing form. She reached round her mother and
released the tie to her robe, pulling the now loose cloth from around
her. Her mother lifted her free arm and the daughter slipped the arm
of the robe off. Then the mother's once free arm curved round to me.
It slipped under my balls and palpitated them with outstretched
fingers. Seconds later her other arm was free too, and she rolled over,
pressing her breasts against my chest.
	"Can you feel the fire in my heart?"
	I swallowed hard. "Yes, I think so."
	She made it clearer. She reached for my hand, pulling
straight it to her pussy that she made more available with a simple lift
of her thigh.
	"That's not your heart." I said in an attempt at defusing
humour.
	"Same difference."
	Maybe she was right. The heart is traditionally the seat of
love. Poets and others have expounded on its glories and revealed its
secrets for millennia. All the while keeping almost silent about the
passion that burns below. She was alive to it, she had nothing to hide
from it, and nothing to hide from me. Her body exuded an urgency
unlike anything her daughter, or I, had. She wanted sex, she wanted it
bad, and she wanted it now. I was afraid I couldn't supply it. She was
obviously far more experienced than her daughter, and she knew her
own mind even better, if that were possible. She also knew precisely
what she liked. That frightened me. While I was technically no longer
a virgin, the reality of my own expression of sexuality was hazy and
confused. I was still experimenting, and would be for years yet. I
wanted to try this, have a go at that; she wanted me now, her way and
wasn't going to take no for an answer.
	"No! I can't do this!"
	She seemed taken aback. Despite all my fears, or perhaps
because of them, she backed off. "Why? Don't you fancy me?"
	"No. I mean yes. Of course I do."
	"Well then what is it? This is my room, my bed. This is my
body and I feel I should be able to do what I like in my own room
with my own body."
	"Yes, of course, but not with whoever you want."
	"Why not?"
	"They might not want it too."
	"Yes. you're right." She got up from the bed and went over
to where her daughter stood with her robe. She slipped it back on.
"I'm sorry. I got carried away. Can you forgive me?"
	I lay exposed, afraid, alone... but still powerfully erect. I
watched in dismay as she drew the robe around herself, covering her
pussy. Both she and her daughter were natural, neither shaved at all, at
least not that I had noticed. Standing up, the folds of their pussies
hid
coyly, nestling the dark locks of pubic hair. I wished to part that
hair. I
wished to fondle those folds. I wanted to caress the lips within and to
lick the succulent flesh beyond. I wanted her.
	"I'm sorry. It was a shock to see the two of you like that."
	"What?" She stopped. Holding the tie of her robe in her
hands.
	"It was like you two had all this planned. I felt as though
you'd tricked me."
	"Oh no!" cried the daughter, "It wasn't like that at all. I just
wanted to help my mother. You know, to share what I had with you."
	"And I just wanted to...." but she somehow couldn't go on.
	"Why not take it off," I said.
	"Pardon?"
	"Your robe. Please."
	The mother looked at her daughter. The daughter looked
back. The mother dropped the ties and placed her hands on the flaps.
She opened it, letting it drop off her shoulders, the fabric running
down her arms on to the floor.
	I looked at her. I looked at her daughter. For all the years
there wasn't much real difference. Lighter hair on one maybe, breasts
tighter and firmer certainly. Skin clearer possibly, but the look of
desire in their eyes was the same, and. yes, the scent, richer even,
spicier, darker. Ah yes, the scent. There really was  a difference, and
now the daughter's came to me too. The two were distinct, even in
that room that reeked of sex, and marmalade.
	"Please may I..." I felt like one of her pupils, though I doubt
she'd ever have heard this request in any of her classes, "...I just
need
to taste you first."
	Her breasts rose and fell in the sharp light. Her hair shone
freely. Her body glowed. My erection tightened and strained. She
looked straight into my eyes and stepped forwards to the end of the
bed. She climbed on, tucking her lower legs behind her; walking on
her knees up the bed. She shuffled over me, not touching me at all.
She brushed her hair over me, but took no notice of my stiffness. I felt
the heat of her pussy on my stomach as she carried on up the bed.  Her
thighs straddled my chest. Two more shuffles and she brought her
pussy right up to my head. She was wide open, her modest inner lips
hanging free, all puffed and open. I reached round, running my hands
up along her thighs.
	"There, take what you need."
	"Ooo, I will. This is what I need," I said as my fingers sifted
over her outer lips and pulled them apart. She reached over me to grab
the headboard top rail and lifted herself up to me. My tongue
remembered what to do. I went straight for her clitoris hood. Flicking
it and licking up and down its shaft, the head buried tight below. She
gasped and surged upwards. I tipped my head back, and now that the
position was right, slipped my tongue under her and thrust it into her
lubricated folds. She rode me, at least that what I imagine the stories
would call it. She lifted herself rhythmically up and down, only an
inch or so, but powerfully and strongly just the same. She drew in
breath noisily through her almost closed mouth. She held her eyes
tightly shut. She threw her head back. Her pace grew urgent.
	"No! Not yet!" she cried, pulling her from me. Her body
shook, her hands clawed at the rail, her thighs clasped.
	"Have you?" I asked in my innocence.
	"No, Not yet," she replied as she shuffled back down my
body. I felt a hand grasp me. I saw her two clinging on to the
headboard for support. The hand tipped me forward to contact tight
flesh stretched over trembling thigh. Still she moved back, lifting
herself up. For a moment I had no idea why. Then, as the contact
changed from bare skin to warm slip I knew.
	"Thank you," she said as two hands clasped her hips and
guided her back and down. I grunted as she formed around me. I had
expected her to be looser, used and sloppy. Everyone said that young
girls are tighter than older women, especially after a child. That's not
always true, in the mother's case it certainly wasn't. Maybe it was just
the weight of her organs and skin hanging down, maybe it was that
she was naturally tight, maybe all women are made that way.
Whatever it was she opened around me perfectly tightly. I didn't just
slip in, as I more or less had with her daughter. I felt her
accommodating within, deliberately opening to me, letting her weight
force me deeper. I wanted to thrust immediately, but I kept still,
languishing in the sensations surrounding me, bathing in her heat and
musk. Then she stopped. She stopped leaning back, and held still,
breathing hard. Should I thrust up, or stay still? Was she, like me,
feeling the wonderful sensations she was giving? Maybe she wanted
more stimulation like her daughter? She had seemed to have loved my
tongue. I reached down between us, the back of my hand to my chest.
Inside she seemed to open up, become slightly distant even, though
her heat and lust remained. She kept her eyes shut, so she did not see
my hand sliding over my stomach. Arriving at my own pubic hair I
lifted my hand, lifting one finger higher than the rest. My touch must
have come as a surprise, she cried out the moment I touched her
clitoral shaft. She let go of the headboard and, no longer supported,
dropped down fully on to me, almost crushing me. I filled all the
space she had created within. To be honest I doubt she had created
any space as such at all, rather it was more probably simply a
weakening of her grasp on me with her vaginal muscles. I filled her
and I gasped out at the sensation.
	She took three deep breaths and then looked down at me. She
opened her eyes and smiled at me, "Thank you," she managed to gasp.
Then she reached up to the headboard and took some of her weight
from me. Now she began to ride me for real, strongly; the bed
creaking under our motion. Her lifts were long, and time after time I
nearly slipped out of her altogether. I ached, I strained, I lurched, I
thrust to meet her. When I did slip out, a hand from behind took me
and guided me back. While another came down from the headboard to
bid me to relax.
	I suddenly realised there was nothing between us. My fear
was recklessly not of disease. My fear was of having a daughter, in
years to come, while having The Daughter. Even that seemed
unlikely; I could not come, even if I had been able, no matter how
much I wanted to, and I did want to. Oh god, how I wanted to!
	"No... condom!" I managed to blurt as the headboard began
to knock on the wall. "Stop!"
	Her head rolled from side to side and looking down as best
she could she gasped, "No need. Pill!" Suddenly she ground down on
me. Her breath gasped in, out, in and in. I reached up and cupped her
breast. She cried out, and she pressed me tightly within. She let go of
the headboard and clasped her hands around my body just below the
ribs, pressing down strongly. She thrust her head down, opening her
staring eyes. She trembled around me, pulses of power deep within
surging out - one, two, three-ee-ee, more breaths, four, cry out again,
a long cry, but not a loud one as her lungs pumped air out, five and
then a weaker six.
	She trembled and shook above me. Her body took her over
completely, the fire within burning her up, consuming her.
For maybe half a minute she clasped tightly to me. Her
breathing subsided and slowly her composure returned. Oh yes, she
had indeed not taken no for an answer.
	She opened her eyes again, this time they saw clearly. They
burned into me and smiling, she leant over, rolling both of us over on
the bed. Her manoeuvre took me completely by surprise, apparently it
did her too, for it didn't quite come off and we disconnected as my
legs hit the sheets. She was in the position she wanted, flat on her
back, knees up and bent, me between them, but I was all over the
place. I heard a laugh from behind me as I awkwardly drew a bent leg
from under me.
	"What now?" I asked naively.
	"Take me. I'm all yours."
	"Am I all yours too?"
	"Take me and find out."
	Repositioned above her I drew forwards, hoping that I'd be
able to slip into her easily. I should have known better, but then I'd
not had much practise.
	"Here," came a familiar voice, "let me help. I've done this
before." I wish I could have said I wanted to take the daughter rather
than the mother, but the truth was that this time I felt no guilt, and
apart from this slight practical inconvenience, felt rather better about
my experience with the mother, so far at least. I had not come too
soon, though that was more to do with having come only a short while
before than with any skill. She had come too, though that was due
mainly to her having known what she was doing, and not letting my
inexperience spoil her experience. She knew how to take her pleasure;
now it was clear the daughter seemed to have trusted rather more to
luck.
	A hand once more reached to me. I felt it close on me, I felt
my the tight ache in my glans. I imagined what it might be like to
come inside a woman, I had only ever imagined it so often  before. I
had of course, but I felt I had somehow missed it, maybe it hadn't
happened, though the lack of it happening now spoke differently.
	"Relax, take it easy. Don't try so hard. There's plenty of
time."
	Was there? I had this urgency drilling into me. `Thrust,
thrust, thrust. Come, come, COME!' It shouted.
	"I don't normally do this," she said quietly.
	"What?"
	"Like this. I ought to thank you."
	"What for?"
	"For not being so big." There's nothing more likely to ruin a
man's passion that a negative compliment, but that's what it was, a
compliment. She went on, "I'm not big down there."
	She could have fooled me, she seemed wonderfully
welcoming and had glorious muscle control.
	"I'm not. Somehow I always seem to pick the big ones.
That's why I like it on top."
	"Big ones?"
	"Yes, if they're on top they just thrust as deep as they can."
	`Just like I did earlier in your daughter,' I thought.
	"They hurt me, over and over. That's why I go on top. I can
control the depth. Then you went and ruined it."
	"I'm sorry."
	"Don't be, it was wonderful. You went in to your full depth,
and it wasn't too much, it was... I needed that."
	"Not too much? So are you saying I'm small, but perfectly
formed?"
	"No," she said with  a smile that carried a look mother's look
of `you silly boy' "You're just perfectly formed. I'm the one who's
small. I took you then because I needed you so much. I took you and
I'm sorry."
	We were going round in circles. "So why are you still lying
there waiting for me?"
	"I can come again, and I know you need to."
	I felt the daughter's hand on mine as it supported me on the
bed. She held it tight.
	"You're almost there now," the small voice said beside me.
"I'll be with you. I'll be with both of you."
	The tightness in my glans was gone; the painful rigidity of
the shaft having subsided a little. I didn't feel like a `big boy', and
according to the mother that's precisely the way she liked me. I lifted
my chest and head up, tilting my body so that my hips drove forwards.
I slipped in. No, I thrust in.
	"Yes, that's it. Take your time."
	I don't know if I did or not. I don't know if it was seconds or
hours. I do know she felt as female as and even tighter than her
daughter, despite her weight being in different places and pressing on
different parts of her. I know she worked within to make my pleasure
complete. I know she cried out more than once. I know she held me
tight. I know I filled her with my semen, just a little, but I did it in
the
end. All the time the daughter stayed close to me, holding my hand.
Whatever else may have happened I do not know. It all ended with me
gasping, grunting, shaking and quivering between her thighs as she
quaked, clasped, shouted and heaved with me.

					***

	Later, while the mother and daughter had a bath, I lay alone.
I supposed they were, in the words of the song, washing that man
right out of their hair. That's why I didn't follow them to the
bathroom; I didn't want to wash the women out of mine, I wanted to
keep their musk and their memory for ever. The room seemed strange
to me, I had never been in it before, not to study it at least. It was
filled with alien things, feminine things that made me feel like an
intruder, as if I was a thief rifling through their most private drawers
for anything valuable. I saw a pair of smooth black panties lying on
the floor. I had stolen something more precious than any jewels, and
my accomplices were washing their hands of me. My flat beckoned,
my bolt hole from the world. It was time to leave.
	A few minutes later I stepped quietly out onto the stairs and
slipped away. From the bathroom came the sounds of pleasurable
washing; splashes interspersed with gentle laughter. I passed by, head
low. I passed by in the shadow of the stairway, praying to enter the
full light of day alone.
	I reached the ground floor and saw the front door ahead. Just
ten feet and I'd be free. Feeling all of the thief of innocence and love
that I was I stealthily trod the tiled hall to the door, finally
reaching up
to open it. The day lay ahead, the rest of my life lay ahead. The light
flooded in upon me, painfully bright, eating at my guilt. I stood
spotlit
by the sun. I stood for all to see that here was a miscreant, a
reprobate,
one who had satisfied his lust without real love with two women, two
who must surely hate me.
	"Thank you."
	I died there by the door.
	"Th... th... than...?"
	"Yes. I thank you for everything. For being careful and
considerate, and for treating my daughter like an adult. She needed
that. So did I." She looked pained, as if the effort of opening her
mouth to speak was almost too great. "I don't make a habit of this sort
of thing you know."  The mother went on, "I see so little of her; I felt
this would probably be the last chance we'd ever have to do something
together - as mother and daughter."
	I looked at her for a few seconds before nodding in stark
realisation. Why had they kept on thanking me? Why? Whatever I had
done I must have done something right after all. I now knew it had
been a wonderful, amazing, day after all; one I'd never forget, but one
that I'd never repeat.
	"See you at the club next week?" she said, more asking than
reminding.
	"Yes, I'll be there." I turned to go.
	"You'll be needing the spare room again then?"
	"Will I?"
	"I think."
	I stopped her. "I know I will. Just the spare room. I heard you
don't make a habit of some things." Half-smiling, half-sighing, I
turned and walked up the path, through the gate and along the road to
my car. I didn't hear the front door close behind me. There was no
one else about in the balm. It was a little after three in the
afternoon.

Postscript:
	I did show up the following week, and the next and the next.
Nothing like that day ever happened again. We never spoke of it. A
year later the mother met another man. He played the fiddle, how
could I compete with that? I took the photographs at their wedding
which took place in a country village some hundred miles away. I
never saw them again. I went to the wedding with my new girl-friend;
the village pub mistakenly giving us a double room, calling her my
wife. There would be no mistake now; that though, is another story.


Joseph Lawrence, Copyright 2000

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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