Chapter 2

The following day was a Monday.

Mrs Robinson had fucked herself quite thoroughly through three extreme outings with the closet cock, the monster-sized black phallus she keeps stuffed away behind her rather large catalogue of elegantly simple sleepwear and/or outright slutty lingerie she might use to titillate herself some nights. On its own merits that might not be entirely unusual an evening for her. Though it would normally not follow an afternoon where she had jacked-off my foamy bathtub boner all over her immensely enjoyable tits in a manner I never could have ever been prepared for; nor advantaged quite completely enough, given the suddenness of my enormous good fortune. Furthermore, I could barely yet comprehend the expertly assertive and inclusive manner in which she’d so masterfully thought to educate me a little bit more about “maturity” and her own matronly instincts in such matters of the flesh.

“How was Mrs Robinson?” my mother asked on that brand new Monday afternoon, having returned from a weekend outing with my father abroad.

“Huh?” was the most I could manage in response.

Mrs Robinson had appeared to enjoy the unimpeded availability of that store-bought dark fuck-rubber in ways she hadn’t quite exampled before. Not so much from a physical sense as much as a seemingly grateful one. There was an inordinate amount of “sloppy” appreciation shown. A lot of mucus and titty slapping. A lot of gleeful splattering and smattering of goo. She used the bottle of oil from her bedside drawer a little more liberally than I’d known before. And she fucked her tits and mouth a lot. Not like foreplay but all very viscerally. And done with great necessity. Seemingly.

“Mrs Robinson,” my mother would repeat. “Did she make an appearance? Things are far too clean around here.”

I could then faintly recognize that I was now standing in the kitchen with my very smartly dressed mother. And no longer upstairs in bed, staring through my bedroom window at all the notably nude and lewd activity taking place apart from us with my now legitimately generous and quite rare next door neighbor.

“Oh yeah. She came over,” I managed to agree. “She meant to clean the kitchen.”

That much I could afford to be accurate about.

“How nice of her. Is that all?”

Mrs Robinson had appeared to be as intimate with her own self-expression the night before as she had been inwardly invested in equaling things out with the mighty dark dick she owned. An interesting paradox to what had gone on in my mother’s master bathroom before all that had become necessary somehow. A naughty so nice my mother could not possibly ever comprehend the complexity and - as recommended by our rather considerate neighbor - ought to best not ever be made aware of at all.

“Huh?” was all I could offer once more, in lieu of all the rest.

Which obviously would not be quite enough.

“That’s all? She only came over and cleaned the kitchen?”

I had to consider the faint recognition of something further aware within her tone. But surely that could only be my own misty-eyed awareness, or concerns.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much. That was all.”

I’d wanted to address my mother more decidedly but all I could really identify were images of my own frothy cock spraying a giant happy mess all over Mrs Robinson’s fantastically framed and superbly erotic assets. Not much else could push that thought away from the most true and honest, ya know?

She paused.

I glanced at her own hidden boobies for a moment as well. Not so bad. She’s no Mrs Robinson in that department though there’s certainly no apology necessary there. I do remember suckling from her quite capably more than a decade prior and appreciating that as the very pinnacle of outstanding at the time.

Our eyes then met.

There was a mere glimmer of a notably aware smile on her face. I’d just been caught for some unknown handful of seconds observing the shape of my mother’s own somewhat timid albeit quite fancy B-cups. And she appeared to. Not completely mind that, entirely.

“We should get her something nice, sweetheart. Okay?” she addressed my father on the opposite side of the room from us. “For Christmas. Something more than a simple card this time, alright?”

I went back to observing her boobs for a moment as she then went on about her more general routine; efficient and productive in cataloging whatever they’d brought back from vacation to where all those things might need to be placed or displayed, just so.

Father afforded her a far away nod of agreement in the form of a grunt of some kind.

My mother has a reasonably seductive ass, by the way. I might have paid some attention to that as well. If only to apologize for his own lack of interest, perhaps. And she may have noticed me notice that also. While not alerting me about it none.

Wait, what had I just recently been thinking about?

Oh yeah - Mrs Robinson.

For the next few weeks.

Mrs Robinson’s curtains would become and remain, consistently closed.

And I could do nothing but mope about my house as a result.

The holidays are plenty festive in my family. It’s all very social and decorative. My mother has a few boxes of particular Xmas things that need to be brought out annually and placed upon all the same spots they’ve known prior. The very same people will visit and almost on the very same date that they had the year before. It’s all quite twinkly and bright. Practiced and purposeful.

Or in my opinion old and tired when the window space across from mine doesn’t ever pop open to show me what’s inside anymore.

This wasn’t all that unusual for Mrs Robinson though, curiously. Around the holidays she tends to become a lot less available. Beyond a few general decorations of her own outside she doesn’t make a show of things too much. And you might catch her in passing on the sidewalk but she’s not one to stall for a delightful chat like normal, at that time of year.

It also tends to be that time of year she might have a man over. You know, upstairs for a tickle of a type. The fuck-me-till-I’m-finished-with-you type of tickle. I don’t believe it was ever someone she’d known before that evening. I dunno, I would never actually witness them entering her home. I’d just hear them in there acting less “familiar” than they might if he were someone from the neighborhood. Though she was plenty covert about it all besides the actual fucking that took place.

I always thought, for a period of years there, that it might happen in the winter so she could more easily hide and freeze the bodies once she’s finished fucking them to death. Stack them beneath the house for later nibbling on or whatnot. Turn them into candy canes. Or something similar. She’s probably got a cauldron of human remains she brews under there to keep her tits as firm and bouncy as they are despite the laws of science that the rest of us must behave within.

But this year I’d find out a little bit more.

My mother (or father) had indeed followed through and bought a gift for me to take over to Mrs Robinson and thank her for ... well, you know, affording me such extreme consideration a few weeks prior.

“Sweetheart? Would you be so kind as to take this over to Mrs Robinson this evening? You take all the time she needs over there to thank her properly - and be your most precious as possible. Okay?”

She gave me a little peck on the cheek and a pat on the butt to follow her orders. Which was rather unusual, she’d not often thought to include a pat on my rear like that before when given a duty to follow.

And then, before I could fully leave the room with package in hand, she paused me.

“Just briefly for Me though. If you don’t mind. Does this make my ass look fat?”

I turned back around to identify her, set in a casual twist of a sideways pose. The kind you might use to center all attention upon your fancy derriere. Or a type you might use to do that in front of a mirror within the cold cubed closet of a department store. But not so much when asking your impressionable young son to have a peek at things.

“Be honest about it,” she added. “If you would. Please.”

Also worth noting, she was wearing a little Santa’s Helper outfit. Not a particularly sexy one, just one for simple giggles and harmless fun. The material was thick and warm; a fuzzy shawl across her shoulders, the bust-line mostly covered; not all that shapely without the belt there to harness at her waist; casual stockings that dove into boots with no more than a few inches of a heel; and a skirt length draped comfortably near mid-thigh (although, she’s not all that tall of a woman). She was fetchingly picking at the hem along her hip as she lightly swiveled herself back at me that way - her fingers notably dainty while at the same time scandalously wicked and curiously intentional.

“Ya know, cuz there’s this,” she would continue to solicit me. “But then This.” And flipped up the thick backside over her elegant little arse completely. The moment was far too brief for me to qualify if I’d seen any panties on besides those relatively generic white stockings. If not for the fact that she done it once more.

“Ya think, too fat?”

And then another.

She smiled at whatever appearance I had frozen on my face, before sauntering off for an additional sip of red wine, from a glass neatly set upon a nearby shelf.

There had not been any panties on underneath the outfit.

“Thank you for your honest answer. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And that was that.

Of course I had not verbally responded in any manner at all. Instead I was learning that perhaps women in general are tremendously gifted when it comes to reading minds. Or else men are perhaps decidedly more obvious in our reactions than we might more comfortably intend.

“As I said, you take all the time you need over there. I’m not keeping a clock on you this evening,” she added before motioning me away. “Show Mrs Robinson what we’re thankful for.”

And so as I fumbled my feet across an icy winter sidewalk to cautiously reach Mrs Robinson’s door. Irreconcilably compromised by the witness of my mother slapping her fancy ass at me that way, while also absorbing a sudden fascination with Santa’s Helper outfits that I’ve never been able to dismiss to this day. Most prominently I must consider, if Mrs Robinson were to willfully grant me entry in the winter time, might I get eaten in there like a gingerbread cookie?

And plus. What’s in the box?!

“HAROLD!!” she gasped, swinging open her door for the very first time to greet me standing there. “Where have you been all my life? Come in, come in. Come IN out of the cold!”

Similar to how effortlessly she had retrieved me from my shuddering and muddy existence in the kitchen weeks before and led me to “brand new” in our master bathroom, she fed me in to her lovely warm home.

Unlike the exterior in those holiday weeks, her more honest interior was brilliantly bursting with sparkling colored lights and Christmas decorations a-plenty. It was like the Disney Electric Parade in there. Made my mother’s own efforts look gray by comparison. She had a great big Christmas tree that towered to the ceiling, so perfect in its stature that it had to be a fake one (and was), plastered with the most ornate and cosmetically fantastic construction of ornaments I’d ever seen. It read like 100 years or more of happy family history. Beyond that there was color all around us and everywhere. Blinking this and that’s and the smell of spice abundant.

“Sit down with me, sit down with me,” she pulled me to the couch with both arms huddled deep around my own like a blanket. “What is that you’ve brought for me? No need for presents, silly goose - just bring us yourSELF!”

This could not have been more alternate to the feeling I had endured while her curtains were closed for the entire month of December. I’d since had it in my head that the bathtub thing was all a dream, as young and maturing young men are prone to do (and I’d know that much at least). Nothing like that could have ever possibly happened with her. And if it had - would have all been my doing somehow and I’d have broken whatever contract that might have existed unspoken between us.

“You sit there. Within my couch,” she depart from me as rapidly as she had sat us down. “I have milk and cookies. Somewhere. Around here. Somewhere.” And began pulling up throw pillows. And random empty boxes that were scattered around her home. In search of milk and cookies. I began to notice that within all the color there was clutter upon clutter all about, with the exception of that Christmas tree which had truly been perfected. Everything else appeared a lot more undecided. As far as where it belongs, apparently.

“Oh my goodness, of course - in the kitchen, silly bird. I cook them myself!” She ran off for the kitchen then, in haste. “Don’t you disappear from there before I get back!”

She’d been wearing a big and bright pink sweater. As thick as any other winter thing you might imagine. It appeared to be knit by hand, may have made all that herself as well; amateur enough that you could see beneath it quite liberally - what with all the illumination and blinking going on in the room - and her nipples had alertly popped, almost instantly pointy. I had felt them thumb at my arm when she snowballed us over to her couch. All of that wondrous weight had been falling all over me besides. While she fawned on me something close to as effectively warm and welcoming.

And down below the big and bouncy she had on a pair of loose fit and time-worn jeans, faded blue and even white in some spots. They’d born holes in them of course. A knee hole here or a thigh rubbed off into webbing nearby, or - as I took note of when she carted off - a rather exemplary one torn out beneath a back pocket and reasonably challenged by the interior of her magnificently grand buttocks.

Much larger buttocks than my mothers, mind you.

Beyond that, she was barefoot.

Her toenails painted a pink to match the sweater.

She returned in such a hurry, the fantastic weight of her delicious bosom bouncing about quite happily (no chance at all there was anything under there from a support sense. All titty. No obstacle beyond the yarn), that a good majority of leche would splash about from the glass and dot her up, and ultimately me as well. She’d dropped her entire weight into me and nearly spilled whatever remained all upon my chest and hers.

“I’m so sorry. What a shrew I am. Forgive and forget.”

Cookie crumbs would join the rest between our chest as she went about adding more happiness all over. She was laughing at it all while making a mess of things. And I began laughing as well. For the first time in weeks.

“Look at me! I’m nearly as awful as a muddy you might be!”

She then stopped trying to wipe me off with more mess and more convincingly drove into the side of me so entirely that I was almost all swallowed up; hugged me tightly like ... I dunno, a snowman might? Albeit a warm one made of big boobies and not just simple snowflakes plus a carrot.

But then, just as seemingly random, she popped all apart and sat herself upright. Thrust her fabulous titties out near the distance of her knees.

“Okay then. What have we here? Whatcha got all boxed up for me?”

It occurred to me then.

For the very first time.

Mrs Robinson lives alone. When she has Christmas it’s by herself and not with anyone else. She apparently tucks herself away within the magnificent lights of a 24-hour parade of color and clutter. Excuses herself from the outside world and has a big ol’ party of milk and cookies with a partnering of only her self. Despite whatever man she might bring over for a random carnal and curiously rare event. It’s all just her in here the rest of the time.

Quite unlike what goes on over at my house throughout the month of December and some more before. Where the front door is more like a turnstile of hello and goodbye’s, corks are popping and early gifts are continually spent and obtained, as if each were not one among a hundred others. Arrangements must be made in an effort to sustain the constant flow of social interaction and the maintenance of such shared appreciation. Cheeks are met with kisses at the rate of a butt on a pillow.

And I’m rude enough to be annoyed by it all.

What a chump.

Notably, beneath Mrs Robinson’s tree, something less than a dozen gifts were littered there and a fair majority would share identical wrapping paper. Possibly her own from a box nearby.

She then noticed me noticing (as women often do, it would appear).

“Nevermind that,” she discarded my thought for one more preferred. “What’s this? What’s in there?”

I’d never seen her face behave quite like that before. I’d only ever seen Mrs Robinson with an appearance that represents she must already know most of everything and remains completely satisfied by all of whatever she has not yet by now had the pleasure to obtain. Perhaps, of course, with the exception of the moon. Where possibly Jimmy Stewart had promised to throw a rope up there one day and fish it all down for her. Although, even when I’ve watched her viewing that - she would retain a pleasant aura of contentment.

This evening it was different. When my mother’s gift was seated on the table before the both of us. It wasn’t contentment. It was mystery and thrill. Potential. Perhaps.

For the the two of us, I had to admit.

“I dunno,” what’s in the box.

Cuz I hadn’t.

She slapped me. Harmlessly.

“You don’t KNOW?!”

I chuckled in return, sheepishly.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. My parents bought it. It’s a mystery to me as well.”

She thought for a moment within herself then. She took a moment for herself. She would continue to share a smile, quite brightly. But she had thought of something secret as well.

“Alright then! A gift for the both of us! Open it!”

She wanted ME to open it.

Throughout all this excitement her tremendous bewbs would continue to warble about and evolve on me, pepper me, pester me, tickle me, plant on me, comfort me. I’d had a full-fledged boner since the moment she’d sat me down, or even possibly before. We both ignored it. Too much going on, once again.

Had I been a more mature man I may have considered the significance of what “opening it” for “the both of us” meant. But even in my less developed state I would not cheat her of this moment of honesty. She was not all that interested in my boner just then. Knowing full well it would remain there at attention.

She only needed to know what was in that carefully wrapped box set before us.

But I wasn’t gonna open it for her. No chance of that. I’d been cheating Mrs Robinson out of earned and true appreciation for years upon years by then. I’m not about to cheat her out whatever gift this might be. The one my mother had found for her.

“I’m not gonna open it. You open it,” I would counter.

Reasonably surprised by my own conviction and confidence.

“Oh, you scoundrel. Are we sharing naughty thoughts?”

Ever the keenly aware one, Mrs Robinson apparently could not help herself from temporarily shelving her own central interest and affording me some type of allowance for the boner that had begun to jerk about within my trousers, impatiently. She could not allow for any unintended neglect, I suppose. But in this, perhaps isolated instance, she would not be correct about my own ledger or list of Important Things. I needed her to discover whatever was in the box just as much she had wanted, and for reasons I could not quite collect yet properly.

“I want you to know what’s in the box,” I said simply. “Go on. Open it.”

She leaned in on me again and hugged herself around my arm like a stripper might to a pole. Or a sleigh-bell might to a reindeer. Or a chip of chocolate might to a cookie. Or a pair of titties might to a...