The primary characters:
Maria Correlli, a 40'ish voluptuous housewife
Max Winslow: a 23 year-old son, back from deployment.
Flossie Winslow: Max's 48 year-old mother
Harry Winslow: Flossie's 52 year-old husband
Millie Johnson: the minister's wife
While Max's buddies were deciding on a choice of college, Max's choices were limited. Most colleges were four years, and you don't get to meet a lot of women. Not the kind of women Max liked. Fleshy women like his mom. Women with a big soft bottom, and broad hams.
Having good intentions, Max planned to get an education, but with as little effort as possible. He didn't have wealthy parents, he wasn't especially bright, and he really didn't want to go to a 4-year college. His father, Harry, barely made it through high school, and as usual Harry was preoccupied with his own business. He was an auto mechanic, and what he couldn't repair he referred to the dealer. Putting it simply, Max and his father were not close. They didn't go fishing together, or go hiking together, or go to ballgames together. Harry looked at Max with envy, thinking back to when he himself was a young stud. He could ride a woman all night long. And Flossie remembered those days when she had to limp to make it to the bathroom.
To make matters worse, Max was a good looking guy, ex-military, and had a massive dick. If you want to talk about penis envy, that in itself pissed Harry off!
Max spent some time in the Middle East. He was a rifleman. In the military these people are called cannon fodder and many of the guys were lucky to come back alive. He was literate, meaning he could read and write. He could shuffle to music, and keep cadence, but he didn't know how to dance.
Flossie, Max's mom, was a housewife, a woman who could have been an artist's model, but spent lots of time in front of her bedroom mirror, fingering himself. She had black hair, porcelain skin, and blue eyes that could look right through you. She posed fully dressed except she didn't wear panties. It made her look cheap and whorish and that turned her on. She wanted to be her husband's whore but Harry these days never lasted long enough in the saddle, and she ended up being frustrated. Her private parts were covered by a forest of curly black hair, and that — in a past life — used to fascinate her husband. He loved her wearing thigh highs and a garter belt when they had sex. But these days Harry wasn't the lover he used to be.
Flossie wasn't a housewife from the old school. She didn't bake cookies, she didn't stay home and watch daytime soaps all day, and she didn't join book clubs. She was a modern woman, and like most modern women she spent much of her time finding new ways to get herself off. You could call her liberal minded. She hooked up with other women, had a fling or two, and had advanced to the stage where she had the hots for her handsome son, Max.
There was a slight drizzle that Saturday afternoon, when a hearse pulled up outside the St Thomas Episcopal church, to take the deceased home to his permanent resting place. To a crematorium at the funeral home. The body was ready, cleanly shaved, dressed in a dark blue suit, a Brooks Brothers white shirt and a flower print tie. Flossie felt her husband was in no position to protest, for if Harry had his way, he'd be wearing an old flannel shirt and grease covered overalls.
Harry wasn't a romantic guy, he was only 52 years old, and he rarely had sex with Flossie. Bone shattering fucking, not a quickie, She was always frustrated because she wasn't ready, her pussy was ice cold, but Harry felt he was giving her a good screwing, his being red faced and almost out of wind.
People would certainly be impressed and most of his friends would wonder who the guy in the coffin was, because Harry, in his former life, looked more like a prophet with a full grey beard. He was still a young man, only fifty two, when he caught Flossie in bed fucking his accountant. Harry suffered a massive coronary, and collapsed on the spot. He had surprised his wife, hoping to take her to dinner. She was moaning and hysterical, yelling "I'm commmming!!!!!" but it was too late. Harry was already gone.
It wasn't until Max attended his father's funeral that his career choice suddenly hit him. His mother was leaning over the coffin, her big behind a few feet from his nose, and smelling of lilac water, and this captured his attention. She had worn a thin black mourning dress which clearly outlined her bottom cheeks, stretched tight enough that he could palm her behind while he consoled his mother in her hour of grief. She was sobbing — Harry was gone — and she was glad he was dead.
Max and his father were not close. Flossie often complained to Max about Harry, because she felt Max was old enough to understand about her needs. She told Max she wished she had a real man in bed, a guy with a big dick and who knew how to use it. In so many words, she was telling Max she was available, and to emphasize her point she wore tight fitting clothes, showing a lot of thigh, and wore bright red lipstick at home. And she giggled a lot.
Young men transition into manhood. It's gradual, and sometimes takes years. Having a big dick, and whacking off 3-4 times a day to some girly magazine is not something a real man does. Appreciating the curves of a woman's body, a live woman, is a step in the right direction. But understanding what a woman wants, whether it's just a hug, or a good fuck, that's something a man understands. She lets you know in subtle ways. She will let you know when she's ready. And a real man can sense those overtures. She might blow in your ear, pat your fanny, or tickle your palm. She can tell when you're hard without looking at it. She isn't coarse and won't say dumb things like "I want to suck your dick!" Even in heat, she will attempt to be lady-like.
Since his return to civilian life, Max needed a job. Max had to fend for himself so he forced himself to go to the public library. Research was not his strong point. He wasn't at home there, because there were students with laptops; students were young, and looked intelligent. Most wore glasses, horn rims, and even seniors –their glasses supported by the bridge of their noses
— were asleep in their world of numbness — appeared to be without a care in the world.
Max looked here and there for fleshy middle aged women, but found none. He checked the reference desk, the video library, fiction, and paperbacks. In desperation he stumbled into 'careers' and he mindlessly flipped through job openings. Sort of, where the field was growing, not so much where the better paying jobs were. Engineers needed degrees, doctors needed advanced degrees, and he worked his way down the list to sanitation engineers (garbage collectors) and dish washers. Not much prestige in those jobs, he wanted prestige! What he did find was, no special requirement existed for working funerals, and not even a high school diploma! From here on, when asked by banks — to get a credit card — what he did for a living, he proudly told them he was an associate funeral director This increased his self confidence, because without a credit card he'd have to beg his mother for mother for a few bucks.
Everyone needs a self image, isn't it so? No one will ever admit he's a zero. The reader should not assume Max works with corpses, for that will only lead you off course. Max would never consider fucking a corpse, and we'll leave it at that.
Not surprisingly, in his spare time, Max considered himself a lover. He had a penis that was almost 10 inches long, an uncircumcised cock. And when you have a penis that large you'd be silly to consider yourself other than a lover. He regarded his shaft as a weapon, not a willy. He correctly assumed that any woman who saw it was his for the taking. Like plucking apples off a tree. The pussy was 'ready on the firing line'.
To assuage his conscience, Max attempted to go to college, the one close to his home. It was a community college that doled out 2-year degrees as consolation prizes for applicants with low SAT scores. He read the brochures and the application. The idea of his writing an essay floored him. The only thing he'd ever written was a limerick on the men's room wall. He could apply
on- line, but he didn't own a computer. His mother owned a laptop but she told him, "Don't touch my computer!" Whatever — he didn't even know the password!
It was only a week before his untimely passing that Harry and Flossie were in bed together and Harry was feeling amorous.
"Blow me a little," he said, squeezing her tit until he could feel the salmon-colored nipple grow hard in his fingers.
"Don't talk so dirty," she said. She ran her fingers lightly over his freckled shoulders.
"I want to fuck you. I'm in the mood for love," he intoned using the lyrics from a song popular in the 30's. Harry couldn't carry a tune but he hoped she wouldn't care.
"Aren't you even a little horny?"
"If you can't make love," she said, lowering her voice and feigning a movement away from him, "without coming up with some perverted idea, how do you expect me to feel anything?"
"There's nothing perverted about it," he urged. "Don't you think Val and Jim do it?" He kissed her on the nape of the neck and squeezed her hand once beneath the pillow, which was their old sign for telling each other that they wanted to fuck.
"You're getting to be a regular dirty old man," she said to him, a smile creeping through her frown. "If that's the kind of thing you men spend your time thinking up, it's no wonder Val and Jim have split up. And, no, I don't think Val ever gave Jim a blowjob, if that's what you're thinking!"
She wriggled a little beneath him, as if to force him away from her body. "I don't know where you get such ideas about your own son and daughter-in-law," she said. "You've been reading too many dirty books."
"Getting warmer?" he asked her, rubbing her soft behind.
She looked up at him, her eyes opening in mock surprise. "Get off me," she said, shoving him away. "You're not even hard!"
He nuzzled the lobe of her ear and whispered, "I'd get hard if you'd lick it a little."
"Better get a splint for it then," she groaned, trying to shove him away. It irritated her that he was wrinkling her nightgown. "If that's what it takes to excite you, you can damn well skip it!" But already she could feel the rubbery tube of his penis growing hard along her thigh. "Go to sleep," she coaxed him. "We're too old to be doing this."
"I want a piece of ass," he insisted, but trying not to piss her off.
"God," she said, moving her hips a little so that he would understand she had given in. "There are more romantic ways to ask for it!"
But she let him draw back a little and center his mushroom dome on the opening of her labia. Even through the coarse brown mat of her pubic hair, she could feel the heat of his erection. She wished her fluids had lubricated her passage better, that he had taken more time with her.
"Well?" she said. "What are you waiting for?"
He stared down at his erection where it was about to enter her slit. Then he looked up at her and grinned. "You been dyeing the hair on your pussy?" he asked.
"Jesus, you're romantic!" she said, gasping a little as his hot shaft slithered into her.
The last time Harry Davis had made love to his wife had been the night of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, three weeks before. Since then Flossie had repeatedly put him off. Though she was undergoing an early menopause, she would not admit it; but she had used her abnormally long menstrual cycle as an excuse to keep from having sex with him. After this time, he was not sure when he would be able to persuade her to fuck again.
Though he and Flossie were buying their own home—they had lost two others in succession when Harry had been twice laid off from different jobs—his life had been neither a failure not a success. He worked hard. When Flossie didn't tease him about being "a drunken old man," he enjoyed drinking two or three beers when he came home from the shop at night. He took a certain pride in his youngest son, Max, who was now living with them again after having being deployed with the Marines in Afghanistan. Sometimes—less and less regularly over the past few years—Harry made love to Flossie; but it had been a long time since they had both enjoyed the excitement of their earlier lovemaking.
At forty seven, Flossie was no longer as pretty as she had been when she had mothered the two boys, but neither was she unattractive. Her body had lapsed into an odd combination of thinness and overweight so that, although her breasts were still firm and her arms smooth, she had lately begun to wear a girdle for the first time in her life to conceal her curving belly. Her thighs were a bit thick and she had a pear shaped ass. When she walked she jiggled and attracted men, women and especially women. Her hair had once been jet black, but now, though she touched it up, it was a very premature salt-and-pepper gray.
She knew it made her look older than she really was, older than Harry even, but she could see no reason to vainly pursue her fading youth. She was the mother of a grown son who seemed to live in a world of his own. Sometimes she wondered if he found her sexy at all, or was she just a mother. To her husband, after being married close to twenty five years she had acquired a sexuality that was comprised of both being constantly horny — ripe and throbbing — and yet with the appearance of propriety.
Back at the church, the pallbearers had an early lunch and a couple of drinks. The widow was the recipient of $1 million life policy from the insurance company. Her eyes were red, because she had wept enough tears to win an Academy award. What occupied Max's attention was the curves, a woman in her late forties, her face properly covered by a veil, and she wore a black dress that hugged her big, soft bottom. She wore black pumps with four-inch heels to match her dress, making her legs look like she had studied ballet when she was younger.
Max knew the woman was his mother. In her grief, she appeared vulnerable, and strangely aroused, as if crying over her deceased husband was an aphrodisiac. Her breasts were swollen, and her thighs were wet, and he could faintly smell the odor of her sex. What was there about death that aroused a woman to heat; that encouraged men to approach her, offering condolences and rubbing her ass? Were women more vulnerable, or more needy than usual? Having her plump buttocks corked while dabbing at her eyes, wiping her running mascara? In his mind he imagined her leaning over the deceased while a pallbearer fucked her from behind, doggy style. This made him hard. His erection told him he should at least support his mother in her grief. By rubbing her big, soft bottom.
"What! Could it possibly be true? Did my son actually try to fuck Mrs. Correlli? A woman old enough to be his mother? As old as me?" These thoughts were going over and over in Flossie Winslow's head, along with images of her son, Max, corn-holing the buxom lady from across the block. One part of her mind told her that the whole thing was a mistake, or even a deliberate lie. But another part recognized the fact that Max was indeed a super horny guy who was quite capable of being attracted to just about any mature female. And Maria Correlli was the type who would be a cock magnet, especially to impressionable guys with a breast fetish.
Flossie was still reeling from the heated conversation with John Correlli. John was sputtering and half incoherent at times as he expressed his rage that his wife, the big-titted Maria, had been repulsed by her son's blatant attempt to seduce her. It took a while for Flossie to finally get the whole story from him. Max had been mowing the Correlli's lawn, as he frequently did for people in the area. He had gone into the house to get a drink of water and had found Mrs. Correlli half dressed, her massive boobs almost hanging out of her top. Apparently he had been carried away by the sight of her naked breasts and had tried to persuade her to have sex with him. This was the situation when John Correlli had unexpectedly come home and discovered the shocking scene. Max had fled, and Mrs. Correlli broke down in tears and then told her husband the sordid story.
Mr. Correlli, as angry as he was, said that he didn't want any media attention. No publicity. He admitted that Max had not tried to use force and perhaps was not guilty of a real crime, since he had been given permission in the past to enter the house unannounced when he was cutting the grass.
He knew that Max was a local sports hero but he warned Flossie that if Max came near the house again, there would be real trouble. Flossie knew that John Correlli would never have the nerve to try anything physical with Max. She wondered why so often those hot-assed women like Maria Correlli married wimpy guys like John.
Flossie was confused, formulating what to say when Max came home, without being too judgmental. Maybe she should hear his side of the story. After all, he was an adult and a woman shaking her boobs in his face, well, he'd be hard pressed to let it pass.
She tried to shake from her brain the mental picture of Max plugging that Correlli slut. Was that what he really wanted? She knew her son, and she knew he liked well built women. Like herself, she had to admit.
Time after time she had detected his voyeuristic fascination with her own body. She knew that he had spied on her on many occasions when she was dressing or grooming herself. Like slipping on her girdle, and scratching her nipples. In fact, she had been flattered by his attentions, for a mother always likes to appear desirable to her son. She had given in to the temptation to give him a taste, a little extra show, apparently unintentionally. She had even felt herself being turned on by the obvious admiration of her handsome young man who had his whole future ahead of him.
Her husband hadn't really been that encouraging, and though he enjoyed the attention that he himself had received from his wife, he was too involved in his garage to devote much time to his son.
But now what? She knew that it would be up to her. Her husband wouldn't be any help at all. In fact, she almost instantly decided that he would never know about the situation if she could keep it hidden. She wasn't about to admit to her husband that Max jerked off to her peep show.
But what could she do? She knew that all the girls were mad about Max. At their age, they couldn't but help notice the huge bulge in his shorts when he mowed the lawn. Or even when he wasn't mowing the lawn. You don't get a hard-on from mowing the lawn!
Many of the prettiest of them had boldly thrown themselves at his feet, so to speak. And not just the young girls. She had seen their mothers salivating, whenever Max said hello. She had even felt a pang of jealousy when these society sluts, as she thought of them, made goo-goo eyes and whispered baby talk to her son.
The college girls she didn't mind, perhaps because Max didn't seem to be much interested in them, although he dated occasionally, and she knew damned well that he scored whenever he wanted to. But now that she thought of it, it seemed to be the older women that Max turned on the charm for. He had a real knack for it; in no time at all they were practically eating out of his hand. There was nothing easier than making it with a married woman. Especially if she wasn't getting any action at home.
The back screen door slammed, and Flossie's felt her pussy throb. Not a mother's proper reaction, but what's a mother to do. Max was home! She heard the refrigerator close as she approached the kitchen door. When she entered, Max was opening a Coke. He was wearing only a pair of shorts and some running shoes. His toned abs were glistening with sweat. "Hi, Mom," he said casually, showing no signs of stress as he took a long swallow of the cold drink.
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