Mavis , Son

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In the days of her youth Mavis was what people called “A well endowed girl.” By this they did not refer to her worldly wealth, but to the generous proportions of her bosom.

Viewed overall she was in all truth a buxom girl with the wild and dark gipsy looks inherited from her mother. Not exactly pretty, she was one of those girls who as the years passed seemed to improve with age and instead of running to fat like many of her type, or for that matter becoming skinny and scrawny, she simply fined down into a very handsome woman of middle years.

But I get ahead of myself. It so happened that her bosom in youth was so vast and consequently cumbersome, that she underwent a breast reduction operation. This reduced her breasts from vast to large. A no doubt understanding surgeon added yet another touch to his work by giving the now large glands a delightful uplift.

Engaging in sport she was a healthy girl and her interests tended to centre on netball and the hundred metres dash. After a while it was noticed that an unusual number of local young males were attending the netball games and the athletics in which Mavis appeared. It was further discovered that their presence was due to the fact that they were fascinated by her breasts which, no matter how restrained, were determined to leap and bounce with her every movement.

Many a breast fancying youth had tried to lay lustful hands on those beautiful female mounds and with each such endeavour Mavis would say sweetly, “No darling, I’m saving myself for Mr. Right,” and then smacked him firmly round the head. Consequently, at age eighteen Mavis had still retained her maidenly virtue.

It was at that age she met Mr. Right who oddly enough was named Mr. Eric Wright. He had his pluses and minuses. First he was a widower and twenty years older than Mavis. He was a couple of inches shorter than Mavis, who stood around five feet eight in black silk stockings, but he was powerfully built. The owner of as scrap metal yard, he was barely able to read and write, but like many of his ilk he was shrewd and knew how to add up and take away when it came to money, and he was, as one might say, well heeled.

Eric had chanced to come to her parents house when her father was offloading a lot of metal that had piled up in his workshop over the years. The scrap merchant sighted Mavis, and was clearly enamoured. Mavis and her parents were invited to come and look over his scrap yard, a signal honour apparently, and during the course of this visit he let drop vague references to his financial status.

At the end of this visit he extended his hospitality still further, inviting them to visit his house, an imposing edifice, and join him in what he called, “Supper.” The supper proved to be a sumptuous meal brought in from a nearby upmarket restaurant complete with obsequious waiters.

After the meal Mavis was invited to go and look at the garden while Eric and her parents sat drinking expensive whisky and talking. The talk, as Mavis learned, concerned her self, and in summary form it came to this, “He’s a good catch.”

Mavis, as shrewd in her own way as Eric, was not averse to a good catch, even though he did not match the looks of the film actors she drooled over. But she was not without a sense of realism, and knew that the images on the screen were just that and would remain just that, but Eric was real and he was rich.

The upshot was that just before her nineteenth birthday Mavis wed her Mr. Wright, together with his bank account and splendid house.

It was after the wedding feast that Mavis was to discover a further Eric asset; he was an ardent lover, and not only ardent but frequent. He roamed through Mavis’s delightful mammary glands and copulated with her like a child let loose in a chocolate factory; but whereas the child might grow sated with the chocolate, Eric never tired of his sexual unions with Mavis. These unions produced one offspring, whom Mavis sentimentally named Clark, which name had been that of her favourite film star when she was thirteen.

In the throes of copulation Eric was wont to gasp, “I’d like to die doing it,” and eventually these proved to be prophetic words. Not that he actually did die doing it, but after they had been married about twenty years, and shortly after a moment of sexual frenzy when Eric had taken Mavis on the kitchen floor, he had a massive heart attack and went to that great scrap yard in the sky.

Thus while still not forty years of age, Mavis found herself a rich widow, and handsome to boot, and being a woman of sensibility as well as sense, she mourned Eric’s passing until she was forty.

At that time she did some more asset weighing. She was rich, she owned a scrap metal yard – I lie – she owned several scrap metal yards; she had a large house and one son. There being no offspring from Eric’s previous marriage, all was at her command.

In addition to these advantages her dark gipsy looks were still with her, consisting of slightly hawkish features kadıköy escort bayan that gave her a huntress appearance, and above all, she had retained her magnificent bosom.

All these things were of course assets, but she had developed her own interests which I shall come to shortly, and the ownership of scrap yards seemed to her superfluous since she had no desire to run them. Many scrap metal dealers were panting to possess those yards, so Mavis decided to sell. They went, not to the breathless owners of other scrap yards, but to the man who had taken over the management of her yards after the death of Eric.

This sale put more money in the bank, a large portion being set aside in a trust account for son Clark.

Now you might consider that these assets would delight the heart of any possessor, and you would be right, but there was, if I might risk a metaphor, plastic mixed up with the metal. As you might imagine, being handsome and rich Mavis was to say the least desirable. Therein lay danger. Mavis, knowing the wiles of men and the honeyed words they can utter when it suits them, wondered how she would ever know if a suitor was interested in her or her money.

That she needed a man in her life seemed certain. She had married for money, but the passionate and frequent unions with Eric over twenty years had left her, shall we say, somewhat oversexed. She did briefly consider the option of a woman in her life, but concluded that this was not her love of choice.

Now for a moment I shall leave this dilemma to one side to draw your attention to other aspects of Mavis’ journey over the years.

At the birth of their son Eric had declared, “He ain’t gonna to be no bloody scrap metal dealer if I have my way.” In this he once more spoke prophetically. It was no disappointment that Clark inherited his mother’s handsome looks and his father’s physical strength – although not his short stature. As he grew towards manhood, and with the aid of the most expensive education available, it delighted his parents’ hearts that he also proved to be intelligent and sensitive.

You might think a man in Eric’s position would deride a sensitive son, but no, he was mightily proud of the boy, and when after the normal childhood choices of being a bus driver, fireman, policeman and pilot, he announced at fifteen years of age he wanted to be a poet, parental delight knew no bounds.

Eric, of course, having never read anything apart from monetary accounts, had little idea of what being a poet meant, but Mavis assured him that it was a very esoteric occupation that normally brought in very little cash.

Eric’s response to this was, “Who bleedin’ cares, he’ll have all the bleedin’ money he needs,” and this we might mark up to his credit. Enquiries revealed that a certain university in a far country was the one to go to if one wanted to be a poet – it’s focus was not simply on poetry and the production of poets, but the refined use of the English language – nothing would do but that Clark must attend that university. Thus Clark, in his latter teenage years, departed for overseas academia. He was in fact still overseas when his father died, and had to hasten home to be in time for the funeral.

Now Clark in his focus on, shall we say, the arts and the finer things of life, had influenced Mavis. A major aspect of her life was charitable work, and since she was in a position to donate large sums of money to these organizations, she tended to preside over them. But these involvements did not satisfy her completely, and it was as Clark developed his love of earth, sea and sky and the beauty therein, that Mavis inspired by her son’s interests, branched out.

First it was photography, then onward to pottery and eventually fine art painting. Naturally at each stage Eric saw to it that Mavis had the finest instruction and equipment, thus there was at the time of his demise, photographic and pottery studios barely used, and an art studio in frequent use.

Mavis began by attending a school of art, but went on to employing at considerable expense, artists to give her private tuition. Some of these tutors had made sexual advances and Mavis almost had to resort to head smacking, but found it more effective to say, “Lay off or you’ll be gone.” The tutors, no doubt having large mortgages or other debts, found it politic to “lay off.”

One such tutor, an artist of some renown despite the fact that he was not dead, received a commission from Eric to paint Mavis in the nude. The sessions with him could become extremely heated, nevertheless, virtue prevailed and Mavis did smack him round the head on one occasion as an auxiliary to threatening the sack.

The painting when finished was hung up in what Eric called his study. This was more a counting house than a study since the only thing studied in it was the comings and goings of money, but as Eric had said of the painting, “I like to look at it to see kartal escort bayan what I’m missing.” This was odd because he saw the original in the naked flesh on a nightly basis; but everyone to their own taste.

So it was that when Eric departed this life Mavis was by way of being an artist; not a very good one, but she tried hard, and had originally drawn inspiration from Eric who described her work as, “Bleedin’ marvellous,” and friends who were mostly drawn from among Eric’s clientele and who consequently thought it wise to praise her work.

Clark had begun by being equally effusive about Mavis’ work, but as time passed he became less inclined to comment.

So that more or less describes where Mavis’ life journey had led her to when she celebrated her fortieth birthday. Although Clark was not there for the celebration he was due home, much to Mavis’ joy, shortly after.

For all the life advantages Mavis appeared to have, there seemed to her to be something lacking. She thought of it as a sort of black hole in her existence, and even tried to paint it, but all she managed was a black blob of paint on the canvas with no supporting features.

Mavis continued to weigh her options concerning her sensual self, and although she had many offers ranging from a one night stand to suggestions of marriage, these came mostly from Eric’s old acquaintances and Mavis, fond though she had been of Eric, wanted something different.

She hoped on his return Clark might bring a different range of people into the house and her life. In this she was to be disappointed.

Soon after his arrival home and the initial hugs and kisses were over, Mavis asked if there was anything that had been personal to Eric that his son would like to have. To her puzzlement Clark chose the nude portrait of herself that hung in Eric’s study. It was transferred to the room where Clark was to both sleep and work on his poetry.

Soon after this Clark became very morose. He brought no friends, male or female to the house, and from what she could tell he related to very few people outside the house. She couldn’t understand this. He was good looking, intelligent and when not being morose, a very personable young man.

Thus did Mavis’ vision of being the centre of an artistic and cultural salon, falter and fail.

Although rather put out by the failure of Clark to fulfil her vision, as an affectionate mother she was concerned for the well-being of her offspring. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but somehow his mood did not invite questioning.

Daily he worked in his room apparently writing poetry, but she noticed that his desk was strewn with crumpled pieces of paper and the wastepaper basket overflowed.

She also found that Clark was much given to listening to classical music of the gloomy variety in which the strings sobbed and the wind instruments announced desolation. One evening, having just come out of the shower, and on hearing the sound of this music emanating from the so called family room, she decided to join him and try and lift him out of his melancholy.

On entering the room she found him stretched out on the divan looking, not only gloomy, but despairing. She approached him and he sat up and made room for her. For a while they sat in silence as the orchestra wept its universal sorrow and doom.

After what seemed to Mavis and interminable length of time the symphonic misery came to an end. In the ensuing silence she asked, “What’s the matter darling, you’ve been so miserable since you got home. Is it me, or the house, or what?”

He said nothing for a while, and Mavis waited patiently. Then to her consternation she noticed a tear rolling down Clark’s cheek. Clark was sensitive certainly, but he had never been given to tears even as a child. Mavis was touched and troubled and repeated her question, “What is it darling?”

Clark responded with a gulping sob and now overwhelmed with compassion Mavis drew his head to her breasts, there to administer comfort and solace. “You can tell me,” she crooned, as if to a child.

Now it chanced that on leaving the shower Mavis had put on a simple wrap. This wrap, normally serving only to let her get from the shower to her bedroom while still retaining decency and decorum, now seemed inadequate for the situation she now found herself in. She blamed herself for the indecent haste with which she had come to offer succour to her beloved boy.

“Then again,” she reflected, “he does have a portrait of me in the nude, so perhaps he won’t think ill of me because I’m only wearing a wrap.”

During this meditation Clark had maintained his silence, but when he did finally speak he didn’t answer her question but said, “You always smell so nice, mother.”

Mavis found this comment slightly disturbing, especially as, having said this, Clark burrowed his head deeper into her cleavage as if to get in closer contact with her female fragrance.

Mavis, toprak escort bayan feeling somewhat uneasy about this close contact and the direction of their conversation, said a trifle unsteadily, “Do I my love.”

“Even in the picture you look as if you smell nice, very female.”

“And you think females smell nice?”

“Not all of them, but you do, you always have.”

Mavis was very aware of his head between her breasts and was troubled to discover that she was actually liking it. The danger, as she full well knew, was that the insubstantial wrap could easily fall open and expose her bare breasts.

She tried to bring the talk back on track. “There is something wrong darling, I know there is; won’t you tell me?”

He moved his head slightly and in doing so nuzzled closer to one of her breasts. As I have said, Mavis had long experience in fending off those who would research those appealing hillocks, but she could not imagine that her son would have the same motivation as those investigators.

Then Mavis had a strange sensation; that dark hole in her life which she had erroneously always located in the sola plexus, seemed to be brightening a little. It was as if a ray of sunshine had at last managed to penetrate the murk.

There had been another long pause and when Clark did speak it was with words deeply distressing to Mavis.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be a poet, mother.”

Now I do not wish to denigrate Mavis in any way, but the years with Eric were not without their influence. Her first thought was, “After all the bloody money we’ve spent on him and he’s not going to be a poet!”

Then tenderness for the fruit of her womb returned, and she said softly “Why do you say that my love?”

“There’s something missing inside me, it like a black hole.”

A black hole! Wasn’t that how she felt, that there was something missing in her life?

His head moved slightly again and his lips were very close to her nipple. She wondered if she should smack him round the head like she had others. She raised her hand but instead striking she began to stroke his hair saying, “You’ve got time my love, plenty of time.”

Then agreeable memories arose in her mind of when she used to hold him like this, but even closer as his little mouth clung to her nipple as she fed him. Then she had felt the warmth of mother love and had enjoyed his suckling. It had been sweet and somehow his closeness was sweet now.

Eric had liked sucking her nipples. One hand would be pressing her breast or exploring her sex organ while his lips engulfed a nipple. Her own hand would be gently masturbating him, and it was then she had felt the heat spread through her and she would beg him to enter her or demand he give her oral sex.

Clark’s lips were not touching her breast and his hand wasn’t exploring her, but “God help me, the heat’s coming now.”

Despite feelings of confusion the dark hole grew even brighter. She tried to speak but her throat felt constricted. It had been over a year since that skirmish on the kitchen floor and no man had entered since. She felt not only the spreading heat, but knew she was lubricating as well, and with that lubrication her nipples would be standing up, long and firm.

She didn’t know if Clark could interpret the signs of female arousal, but if he could, his lips being so close to her nipple he must notice despite the flimsy cloth that still covered it. She said a silent prayer that he would not notice his mother’s shameful state.

She was well and truly sexually aroused, but this was her son and…yet he was a man as well and they had been separated for several years while he studied. Perhaps that separation was confusing her, it was as if she was holding not her son, but some desirable young man; yet he was her son and it seemed all the sweeter for being so.

Her hand ceased stroking his hair and began to feel the contours of his face. He gave a sigh as she touched his lips and gently raising his face she bent her head and kissed him softly.

He spoke one word that was almost a groan, “Mother.”

She glanced down and “Heaven help me, he’s got an erection.” His jeans could not hide the large projection they strained to retain.

She knew…could no longer doubt, it all came together. The picture of her naked he had asked for, the moroseness, the bleak music…she knew. It all betokened an illicit desire for his mother.

As though in a hypnotic trance she moved part of her wrap aside to reveal a naked breast and drew his mouth to its nipple. “Strange,” she thought, “how men desire that little morsal, perhaps women do too.” She wasn’t sure about women.

He had taken her lead and as she held his head to her he suckled her. The dark place in her was now filled with brilliant light. She was almost beside herself knowing that it would not stop now…knowing what the end would be and she had no desire to prevent it.

She drew one of his hands to her other breast and pressed his fingers round it and leaning back on the divan she let herself enjoy this moment. She wanted to reach for his penis…to feel its firmness and throbbing warmth, but their position was too difficult.

His avid sucking was sending shimmering waves of pleasure through her. She let him enjoy her for a while longer and then said, “Take off my wrap, darling.”

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