Mother and daughter

It was no surprise to be invited back to their apartment for drinks; that seemed to flow naturally from the course of their conversation. They'd come to the café by bus, so he was able to drive them back, as he wished. It felt good to open the door to the back seat and watch them slide in.

Their home was modest, in size and décor. They'd downsized, Ava said, after her divorce -- and that was as much as he learned about the missing man from their past. She made no effort to show the place off.

Emily slipped away as soon as they were through the front door. He heard quiet clinks from the kitchen, as though she was tidying up or preparing something. Ava meanwhile told him, in a slightly embarrassed tone, that all they had to drink was port or gin. He chose port, in case they saw gin and tonic as effeminate.

And then she clapped her hands once, announcing she was getting changed. But wherever she went off to, it wasn't far, for she kept up a line of patter to him. During this time Emily arrived with a tray of glasses, a bottle of port (near full) and crackers.

It was the girl's first moments alone with him; he was curious to see how she'd use them. As it turned out she sat with hands folded in her lap, and did not meet his eye or say a word: the room was still commanded by her mother's voice from afar. Then, in came Ava. The V necked top was replaced by a high-collared one, but so form-fitting it was like a second skin. Raw female power, he thought; if she wore a bra he couldn't see it, each breast was left free to do its thing.

Paul was stirred not just by her proportions but also by her obvious need to show them off. Yet part of him wondered how her flat chested daughter would feel about it; and surely Ava knew full well whatever Emily might be feeling. But as for Ava herself, a trumpet blast could not have had more impact than that crimson top. Below was a tightish skirt ending just above the knee: orangey-yellow, with a faint sheen.

"What do you think Paul?" she twirled slowly around, hands to each side, fingers splayed; her nails, he noticed, were the same red as the top. But from behind he saw her ass properly for the first time. Going from the café to the car there'd been too many distractions... but now he saw. He swallowed. It was perfect. Just perfect. Large but not gross, globed but not bubble, the cheeks neither too bunched nor too parted. To his taste, utterly ideal. But again, this was a shameless display -- from any female, let alone a 45 year old. In his mind, he saw the guys he mixed with double over in mirth. But Paul's blood raced.

"Walk forward," he said, all caution gone. She obliged, knowing just what he wanted, her buttocks pushing turn by turn at the fabric. He sighed.

"You're fabulous," he said.

"Enough of that, naughty boy," she answered quickly, smoothing her the skirt, though in fact it was too tight for wrinkles. When she sat down it wrapped her thighs up like a Christmas present. Emily glanced across at her mother now and then, momentarily, then she' d look down; she never turned his way.

Ava's talk now was back to ordinary things. Emily, she said, was finishing an Arts degree, "though who knows what that will be good for." She herself worked as part of a team managing shop floor staff at a supermarket. "But they'll shake most of us out, with all this turmoil happening in the economy." She slapped her thighs. "On the scrap heap at 45." She sighed and shrugged -- somewhat theatrically, he thought. "Emily and I will manage somehow."

For Paul, port was a drink normally sipped after dinner, if sipped at all, but now he knocked it back, wanting alcohol in his veins. Having absorbed the attractions of Ava, his eyes turned more and more to her daughter, so tranquil and quiet. His gaze traced the line of her slim arms, slim legs, the gentle line of her jaw.

"You are both very attractive women," he announced. As if on cue, Emily stood and, still not looking his way, walked out of the room. He turned to find Ava approaching, a serious look on her face.

She slowly sat herself in his lap.

She turned to her right, sitting on him almost sideways. Her backside filled the area from his stomach to mid-thigh or beyond. And now she took his hand and positioned it just under her left breast. "I know what you want, young man," she said. "Take it."

Reverentially he cupped the globe of her breast, and felt it give under his fingers. His other hand slid to her hip. The whole of life rushed into the moment. Her thighs stirred slightly; it was as though the universe shifted. And then her mouth closed onto his.

His left hand had found its way under her ass. His free right hand roved everywhere else -- breasts, thighs, sometimes waist, or arm, once onto her face -- as though wanting her everywhere at once -- as though catching at gold coins fountaining down. At the same time, he became aware of slight imperfections. Her breath, while not bad, was not quite fresh; her middle was a bit bulkier than he would have wanted.

At last she pulled back a little. Her ass was still firmly planted on him, but now she took both his hands, as though to stop them roving, and pressed them down on her thighs. She looked into his face: possessively it seemed to him, but also thoughtfully. He saw again the fine, fine red hairs on her face. He decided he was deeply in love with her. She turned away, and looked down.

"It's a shame," she said.

"What is?"

"Emily missed out on the breasts. And ass. Got her genes from her father's side."

He was very pleasantly aware of her warmth and weight coming down on him. He hugged her closer.

"But you didn't," he declared. At this she turned to him, and for a moment her eyes were full of feeling. But what feeling, exactly? He could not tell. Then the glow on her face faded, like a westering sun setting behind cloud. Still he felt her warmth and weight, delivered down to him through her wonderful ass and thighs. He never wanted her to get off him.

"It's a myth, you know," she said quietly, studying his face again, "that all women want orgasms. Some women, maybe quite a lot, don't even have physical arousal. No fault of the man, it's just how they are. Did you know that? For them sex is all for the man." There was a distance in her tone now, it was a sudden shift to dark unknown terrain. He formed the confused idea that she was going cold on him, and would not want sex.

Then, as though guessing his thoughts, she smiled warmly, knowingly. It was almost a grin.

"But as for me, I'm a woman who wants all the pleasure she can get. Up now." She rose and pulled him to his feet. "Bed time."

In her bedroom she put her arm around his waist, as though beginning a ballroom dance. But then she pulled back, dropped her skirt, and then flopped herself face up on the bed.

"I'm yours to manhandle."

He began kissing just above her knee, encroaching up very slowly until at last he reached the upper limit of her thigh. He mouthed her around her vagina, then shifted her body so as to kiss all around the inside of her ass cheeks. And then he returned to her front and tongued her, fingers sinking into her buttocks. She writhed, but almost silently, then at last she shuddered to a climax, collapsed back, and sighed.

In the next moment, he thought, she'd fling her arms out and say Ravage me. She did not. Instead, she said "Next time, my breasts". Then she picked up a gold bell by the side of her bed, and to his astonishment, rang it. The clear tones were like innocence itself.

Emily arrived swiftly at the door, walked in, pulled him gently upright and led him by the hand out the door. She now wore a silvery grey slip that fell softly against her slender frame, including, once or twice, into the declivity of her bottom. Her hand felt frail after her mother's fleshiness. But Paul barely registered all this -- still dazed by Ava and her golden bell.

In her room own Emily turned to him, took his cock and balls gently in her hand, and look up at him determinedly. She was about 5 foot 3, or 160cm, to his 6 0/180; it felt like the right height to him. In her hand he hardened again in seconds, and as he hardened, she looked ever more satisfied. She suddenly dropped the ground and knelt before him, eye to eye with his genitalia. She held his cock at its base, shifting it slightly side to side, and turned her head to study it from other angles. He was circumcised; large, but not porn-star huge; his balls were sizeable too. Under her attentions his head bulged and purpled. After one swift glance up at his face she slipped one hand behind his balls, still holding him at the base with the other. With that same determined look she lowered his cock slightly and took it into her mouth. No teeth on him; expert work.

She pulled away a moment.

"Chair or bed?" she asked, not taking her eyes from his cock.

"Chair."

She knelt before him in the chair, his legs spread. Again she slipped one hand back behind his balls, caressing as best she could. Her lips went halfway down his cock, while her free hand worked on his lower half. Now and then she pulled away to remove a pubic hair from her mouth -- loops of saliva and precum still connecting his cock to her lips, as she soberly re-inspected his member. Then suddenly she'd take him back and resume her work. When he released she went very still. She pulled gently away, lips closed and bunched up. She swished his cum around her mouth, looking up and him solemnly, and then swallowed it all down. Softly then, and with the same seriousness, she cleaned his tip with her mouth. And then sat back and looked up.

"How did I do?" He sighed and took her hand. Sublime, he wanted to answer, but said nothing.

They stood. He pulled her into a hug. Her face nestled into his chest. The weirdness of what had occurred with Ava was forgotten in his blazing afterglow of satisfaction.

"You did good."

"I'll improve once I know you better. I want to be the queen of service."