"Damn you to hell, Frank!" She slammed the phone onto its cradle and turned to see her son entering the room. Her face was flushed with anger and she brushed a tear from her eye.
"I guess that," he indicated the phone, "means Dad has another oh-so-urgent demand on his time." The sarcasm in his voice didn't hide the pain he felt. His father was so wound up in his business and this was not the first time he'd neglected his family in favour of his emergency trips. "What is it this time?"
"The usual crap. A problem at the Newcastle office and they have a Monday morning deadline. He was calling on his way the airport. He should have been coming home: today of all days he has to go. He told me to apologise to you. So much for your 18th birthday dinner. Damn him, John. He should BE here for you – for all of us!"
She took a moment to simmer down and, with a deep exhalation, came to a decision. "Right! We'll celebrate without that bastard: just you and me. You'll have your party; he's already booked the table. Tonight you and I are going to spend the precious bloody money his precious bloody business makes." She held out her arms and gave him a hug. "The table's not booked until seven o'clock but I fancy a cocktail hour. We'll get changed and have an early start. Book us a taxi first but give me an hour to get ready. And put it on your Dad's business account!"
She made her way to the bathroom, stripped and got under the shower, standing for a few minutes, allowing the hot needles to soak away her anger before she massaged the shower gel over her body. Humming to herself, she luxuriated in the slick sensuality as she passed her hands over her small breasts, down her tight tummy and hips, lingering between her legs, cleansing herself thoroughly. Picking up the razor, she shaved the stubble from her legs, her pubic region and underarms. She rinsed off, stepped out of the shower stall and reached into the airing cupboard for a towel.
John called the taxi office and was promised a cab at 5:45. He made himself a coffee and sat down to listen to the news headlines on the radio. Nothing earth shattering; the bulletin gave top spot to the latest scandal involving a Cabinet Minister. He finished his coffee, turned off the radio and made his way upstairs to the bathroom.
He opened the door and was frozen in mid stride at the sight of his mother, stark naked, reaching into the airing cupboard. She jumped in surprise and he noticed how her small breasts bobbled a little. For a second or two she never moved then grabbed a towel and the vision was gone. He felt the colour rising to his face and stammered an apology. "S ... sorry, Mum. I didn't know you were in here and the door wasn't locked." But his eyes had trailed over her body in that short time. He turned away and closed the door behind him.
Yet in his mind's eye he could still see the bounce of those small, pert breasts, see the darker pink of her large areoles topped by long nipples. He could still see the beads of water running down her slim, boyish body, glittering over her shaved mound and dripping at her feet. He reached his room and sat on the bed but couldn't get that vision from his mind. He loosened his belt, pulled his jeans down to his knees and took his rigid shaft in his hand.
Wendy, his mother, was mortified. She was no stranger to flashing her body but had always been scrupulous at home, never dashing from bathroom to bedroom in her undies, no matter how pushed for time. And now she had embarrassed her son just because she forgot to lock the damned door. She dried herself and put on the terry bathrobe hanging behind the door.
"I'd better apologise to him," she thought. Stepping to his room she opened the door calling, "Johnny, I'm so sorr ... Oh Jesus, no..." She saw his horrified face staring at her as a string of sperm splattered onto the bed head behind him. "Oh god, I'm sorry again, John."
This time it was she who closed the door behind her and crossed the passage to her own room. This time it was she who had a vision seared into her mind: of a hand gripping a lovely thick tool, of the veins bulging purple, of a foreskin pulled back, exposing the glistering head, of the spurt climbing in a fast, low arc past his staring eyes.
Ignoring the dampness between her legs and the tinglingly erect nipples, she proceeded to get herself ready. It was a dinner/dance at the Royal Station Hotel. Strictly formal dress was de rigueur: black tie for the men and the gown she'd hired for the evening was a gorgeous off the shoulder full length, figure-hugging shantung silk creation in the same blue/grey colour as her eyes. There was a slit up the left leg to the bottom of her hip. All edges were trimmed with silk tape in a two-shades-darker blue. She had searched the shops to find a suitable lingerie set and had settled on matching the colour of the beading tape. Her bra was more aesthetic than functional: she didn't need the support. It and her high-cut panties were a delicate semi-transparent lace.
She tidied her hair as best she could – her frizzy blonde curls were uncontrollable at the best of times – fixed her makeup then slipped into her 3" shoes and went down to the kitchen to wait for the taxi. John was already sitting at the kitchen table, idly swirling some water around the bottom of a tumbler. Gosh, he did look quite the man in his dinner jacket and tie: the maroon cummerbund setting it off a treat. But he was slumped on the chair, almost shrinking away from her.
John glanced up when he saw his mother then turned away again, his face suffusing with blood. "Listen, John, I'm really so sorry, especially the second time." He heard the words but they didn't sink in. He felt her cool hand on his wrist, stilling the twiddling glass.
"I never knew you were in the bathroom," he blurted. "The door wasn't locked. You must think I'm a pervert walking in on you. Then you came and ... saw me..."
"Hush, John; it's all right. I know you're not a pervert. It was my fault both times. I should have locked that door, I didn't even realise I hadn't. My fault! I'm sorry. The second time, I should have at least knocked on your door and not come bursting in. You're entitled to your privacy, but I was in such a hurry to apologise for the first time. Again, my fault: again I'm deeply sorry. I've embarrassed you twice.
"About what you were doing, Son, it's no shame to masturbate. It's natural, it's healthy and you won't go catching diseases."
Her other hand cupped his chin and he felt his face being drawn round to look at her. "We all do it, John." He saw the corners of her mouth twitch in a tentative smile. "Will you forgive me? Pretty Please? Then we can and go out and have one hell of a good birthday party and we can both forget what we shouldn't have seen. Hugs?" She opened her arms to him. He stood up and gave her a big hug, both of them being consciously making it chaste.
But neither of them forgot and they both knew what had inspired the masturbation session. John was wondering if he could ever hope to see his Mother like that again. She was a little flattered that just one sight of her body could cause her Son to react that way. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" she said to herself as lustful images started insinuating themselves into her mind.
The Royal Station Hotel was one of those palaces the railway companies built at their main terminals; it still retained much of its original Victorian formality: the sort of place which just oozes old fashioned charm. They found a quiet corner table in the cocktail bar and ordered their drinks. John didn't drink much; tonight was the first time he was drinking legally and he had only seldom joined his mates on their weekend binges so his glass contained more soda than brandy. Wendy was partial to vodka and the barman suggested some blueberry flavoured vodka, just on its own. It tasted so good as she savoured the richness of the liquor on her tongue and felt it trickle creamily down her throat.
The events of earlier faded into the background as they relaxed into general conversation: how his studies were coming on, the state of the drive after her car shed it's oil, his latest computer games, her email friend in Australia ... But by unspoken agreement they didn't discuss his father or the business. They had always been comfortable talking to each other, even maintaining 'contact' during his adolescent rebellious spell. Maybe because they saw so little of his father, they had been thrown together more.
The Maitre d' Hotel took their order. The Chef had some tender asparagus, just flown in this morning? They accepted his recommendation. "John," Wendy asked, "would you mind if I had raw meat? I really would like a steak tartare; I haven't had one in simply ages." He looked blank.
"It's a raw finely minced fillet of beef, Sir," the MD offered, "mixed with chopped shallots, various herbs and an egg yolk. Not for the faint hearted, I fear." He smiled.
"Well, if you can eat it, Mum, I guess I can watch you. But I think I'll stick to something more civilised."
"The Steak Tartare for you then, Madame?" He scribbled on his notepad when she confirmed her order. "And for you, Sir?" John finally settled on a fillet steak.
"But cook mine, I'm not a cannibal. Medium rare, please. A few mushrooms and a small mixed salad."
"Make that a large bowl of salad and we'll share it," Wendy chimed in.
"Very good, Madame." The MD finished his scribbling with a flourish. "Your table will be ready when you are. Enjoy your evening." He smiled, stepped back a pace, briefly bowed his head and made his quick but unhurried way back to his desk.
.... There is more of this story ...