Natural Endurance

Day five and I'm starting to think America might actually kill me. Not the heat. Not the training. The sheer sexual chaos of this household.

Steve's at some athletics conference in Atlanta until tomorrow. Megan's teaching summer school. Katie's doing whatever Katie does when she's avoiding me. Lily left this morning for some art thing, kissed me goodbye and slipped her tongue in.

I'm alone. Finally. Eating porridge and a protein bar.

That's when the taxi pulls up.

I watch from the window. Woman gets out. Early sixties maybe. Long linen skirt, silk shirt, proper leather bag. Hair silver-grey, cut short and sharp. Moves like someone who's never questioned whether they belong somewhere.

Pays the driver. Walks up the path. Opens the door with her own key.

Oh fuck.

She sees me at the kitchen island in my boxers and an old Cambridge rowing vest. Stops. Looks me up and down. Not leering. More like she's deciding if I'm worth the bother.

"You must be the British runner Steve's imported."

American but posh. Makes you straighten up without meaning to.

"Dan, yeah. You're...?"

"Patricia Morrison. Steve's mother." Sets her bag down. "Though I suspect you've worked that out by now, given your expression."

Steve's mother. Remember that comment I made about Helen Mirren being a proper GILF? This is exactly what I meant.

Patricia's got cheekbones. Posture. The way her shirt's tucked in showing she's still got a figure and I need to stop staring at my coach's mother right fucking now.

"Sorry, no one mentioned you were visiting."

"That's because I didn't mention I was coming." Goes to the fridge. Pulls out a bottle of white wine. Checks the label, pulls a face, puts it back. "Where does Megan keep the decent stuff?"

"Er, pantry I think. Back left."

Finds it. Corkscrew. Two glasses. Pours without asking if I want any, slides one across to me.

"It's ten in the morning," I say.

"It's five o'clock somewhere. Drink."

I drink.

She sits across from me. Back straight. Takes a sip, watches me over the rim.

"So. Cambridge."

"Yeah."

"What college?"

"Trinity."

"Mm. I was at Girton. Long time ago now." Another sip. "Steve tells me you read History."

"Got a 2:1."

"Which means you're intelligent but lazy. Or distracted. Which is it?"

"Bit of both I guess."

She almost smiles. "Honest. I like that. Steve's usually such a terrible judge of character but perhaps he's improving with age."

Can't tell if that's a compliment or an insult to Steve or me or both.

We talk. Books. Cambridge. Running. Normal conversation except I'm sat here in my boxers with a semi that's threatening to become less semi and she's just there being all elegant and sharp and I'm going to hell.

My dad always said I lacked impulse control. Proved him right with Felicity Carter at his mate's garden party when I was nineteen. Proving him right now by thinking what I'm thinking about.

"You're staring," she says.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologise. Just tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking this is a really bad idea."

"What is?"

Can't say it. Shouldn't say it. Say it anyway. "I'm thinking you're the best-looking sixty-something woman I've ever seen and I'm wondering if that makes me weird."

She sets her glass down. Something in how she's looking at me now. Interested maybe.

"How old are you Dan?"

"Twenty-one."

"And you find me attractive."

Not a question.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Um, how you move. How you talk." Stop. Don't make it weird. "Just, yeah. You're fit."

She laughs. "Fit. That's very British of you."

"Well I'm British."

"So you are." Stands up. Walks round the counter. Stops in front of me. Close. Her perfume's something expensive and subtle. "This is a terrible idea, you realise that."

"Most of my ideas are."

"Steve's my son. You're here because of him. This breaks about seventeen different rules of hospitality and common sense."

"Er, I know..."

"And you're still thinking about it."

"Yup."

She looks at me for a long moment. Then reaches out, touches my jaw. Light. Just fingertips.

"I'm sixty-three years old, Dan. My body doesn't look like a twenty-year-old's."

"Don't really care."

"You say that now."

"I mean it."

Her hand drops. Steps back. "I'm going to shower. I've been travelling since four this morning and I feel disgusting." Heads towards the stairs. Stops. Doesn't turn around. "I'll be in the guest room. If you follow me up there in five minutes, I'll assume you've thought this through. If you don't, we'll pretend this conversation never happened."

Then she's gone.

Sit there with my wine. Cock's gone from interested to very interested to practically making the decision for me.

This is mental. I'm a guest in his house and I'm thinking about shagging his mother. But then I'm thinking about how she looked at me. How she touched my face. That silver hair. An older woman who knows exactly who she is and doesn't apologise for it.

Finish my wine. Count to three hundred. Walk upstairs.

Guest room door's open. Just slightly.

Push it wider. She's standing by the window. Still dressed. Looking out at the garden.

"You came," she says without turning.

"Yeah."

"Close the door."

Do it. Lock it.

"I need you to understand something," she says. "I haven't done this in seven years. Since my husband died. So I'm nervous."

"You'll be fine."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're here. Because you're honest about what you want."

"Come here then."

Walk over to her. Stand close. The lines round her eyes, the softness under her jaw. My hands go to her waist. She tenses, then relaxes into it.

"Okay?" I say.

"Yes."

Kiss her. Gentle at first. She kisses back and it's different from the others. More deliberate. Her hands come up to my chest.

Pull back. "Still okay?"

"Stop asking and just kiss me properly."

So I do. Tongue. Hands sliding up her back. Start unbuttoning her shirt. Take my time. She watches my hands. Each button reveals more. Lace bra underneath.

The shirt slides off her shoulders. She's got good arms. Strong.

"These next," I say. Hands at her waistband.

She nods.

The zip's at her hip. Slide it down. The skirt falls past her hips, falls at her feet. She steps out.

Standing there in her underwear. The bra. Hold-ups with lace tops mid-thigh. Knickers. That gap of bare skin between where the lace ends and the knickers begin.

Fuck me. Haven't seen hold-ups since that party at Christ's. That lawyer from London. This is better though.

"What?" she says.

"Nothing. Just. You look good."

She blushes. "I'm too old to be flattered by a twenty-one-year-old."

"Not too old for me to mean it though."

My hand runs down her hip. The lace top under my palm. Then bare skin above it. She shivers.

"Don't ladder those," she says. "They're expensive."

"I'll be careful."

Kiss her neck. She tilts her head back. My hand slides round to her arse. Press against her and she knows exactly how hard I am.

"You're very ready," she breathes.

"Have been since you sat down."

She laughs against my mouth. Kisses me harder. Her hands go to my boxers, push them down, my cock springs up between us and she wraps her hand round it.

Oh christ.

"When's the last time?" she asks.

"Last time what?"

"You had sex."

"Yesterday, um or was the day before...bit jetlagged."

"Busy boy." Strokes slowly. "American girls treating you well then?"

"Could say that."

I can't tell her it was her daughter-in-law. Or her granddaughter. Or her other granddaughter. What a mess.

She lets go. Reaches behind herself. Unhooks her bra. Lets it fall. Her breasts are larger than I expected. Heavy. Nipples pale pink. They've dropped a bit with age but they're gorgeous.

I bend down, kiss one. She gasps. Her hand goes to my hair. Suck her nipple into my mouth and this deep sound comes from her throat, do the same to the other one, she's gripping my hair now, fingers tight.

"Bed," she says. "I'm too old to fuck standing up."

Lead her to it. She lies down, still in the hold-ups and knickers, that lace, that bare thigh above it.

I kneel at the end of the bed. Hands on her ankles. She tenses.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking these off."

"Leave them on."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

My hands move up her calves. Over her knees. Up her thighs to where the lace ends. Bare skin above. She's watching me, breathing harder.

Hook my fingers in her knickers. Slide them down. She lifts her hips. And there she is. Silver-grey hair between her legs. Thicker than Katie's, natural unlike Megan's. Different. Older. Sexy in a completely different way.

"When's the last time someone went down on you?" I ask.

She blinks. "I don't... longer than seven years."

"Right, that's the first thing we're fixing then."

"Dan, you don't have to..."

"I want to."

Lie between her legs. Put my mouth on her inner thigh. She jumps. Kiss higher. First lick and she gasps. She's wet. Not as instantly wet as Katie, different from Megan, but wet enough. Tastes different too.

Her clit's right there. Start gentle.

"Oh god," she breathes. "Oh god, Dan."

Keep going. Same rhythm. Same pressure. Her hips start moving. Small movements at first.

"Talk to me," I say. "Tell me what you need."

"That. Just that. Don't stop."

So I don't. Settle in. Get comfortable. Work out what makes her gasp, what makes her hips lift.

Slide one finger inside her. She grips me immediately. Add a second. Start moving them while I keep licking.

"Oh fuck," she says. "Fuck, Dan, that's..."

That spot inside, press against it. She actually cries out. Loud. Her thighs close round my head.

"There," she gasps. "Right there, don't move."

Hold still. Just steady pressure inside and keep licking her clit. She's tightening round my fingers, I feel it building. Her breathing's changed. Coming in short gasps now.

"I'm going to...I haven't..."

Then she comes. Goes completely rigid first, silent. Then this long moan. Pulsing round my fingers, lasts ages.

When she finally relaxes I pull back carefully. Look up at her. She's got her arm across her face, chest heaving.

"Patricia?"

She moves her arm. Looking at me. Eyes wet.

"You alright?"

"I'd forgotten." Her voice is rough. "I'd completely forgotten it could feel like that."

Lie next to her. She turns into me immediately. Face against my chest. Her heart hammering against my ribs.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"We're not done."

"I know. Just...give me a minute."

Hold her. Her hand trails down my stomach. Finds my cock still hard.

"This looks uncomfortable," she says.

"Bit, yeah."

Shifts onto her back. Spreads her legs. Looking at me. "Come here then."

Move over her. Position myself between her thighs, she's so wet, my cock's right there.

"Tell me if--"

"Dan. I'm sixty-three, not ninety. Stop being gallant and fuck me."

Push inside her slowly. Have to go slow, let her adjust, this noise from her as I slide in, nails digging into my shoulders.

"Okay?"

"Yes. More."

Push deeper. She gasps. Wraps her legs round me. Pulling me in.

"All of it," she says.

Push all the way in and christ this is deep. Start moving. Finding a rhythm. Watching her face. She's flushed. Eyes closed. Mouth open.

"Talk to me," she says. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking you feel incredible. Thinking seven years was too fucking long for you to go without this."

"Yes," she breathes. "God yes. Harder."

So I do. She meets every thrust. No hesitation. Her nails scratching down my back.

Pause. Then I position myself sideways. Slide back in. Different angle. Deeper, we kiss as i stroke her clit and continue the rhythm.

Deeper still. We're in the dresser mirror.

"Oh christ," she gasps. "I'm going to... again... I'm..."

She tightens round me. Whole body goes rigid. Face pressed into mine. Coming hard and the feeling of her does it, I'm spunking inside her, deep, can't stop.

"Fuck," I manage.

"Yes," she says. That's all. Just yes.

Lie there in the quiet. Outside the lawnmower's still going. Normal suburban sounds. Inside we're both naked and I've just fucked Steve's mother.

Dad would definitely have something to say about this one.

Patricia sits up slowly. Starts gathering her clothes. Doesn't rush but doesn't linger either.

"That was perfect," she says, pulling her knickers on. "Don't ruin it by feeling guilty."

"Not feeling guilty."

"Liar." But she's smiling. Puts her bra on. Then her shirt. Buttoning it up at the mirror. Getting herself back together. By the time she's done you'd never know. Looks exactly like she did when she arrived. Elegant. Composed. Except for the flush still on her cheeks.

"We're going to have a perfectly normal dinner when everyone gets home," she says. "Can you do that?"

"Yeah. Course."

She comes over. Sits on the edge of the bed. Touches my face. "Thank you, Dan. For not treating me like I'm fragile."

"Easy when you're that fit."

She kisses me. Soft. Brief. Then stands up. "And for what it's worth? You were right about the impulse control. But sometimes that's not a bad thing."

Then she's gone.

Lie there staring at the ceiling. Five days in and I've had sexual relations with four women, all from the same family. I feel my endurance has improved but my weekly mileage has dropped. Funny that.

Later, at dinner, Steve's on speakerphone from Atlanta boring everyone about conference sessions. Patricia's asking Megan about her teaching, all interested and engaged like she's been having a perfectly normal day. Katie's pushing food round her plate avoiding everyone's eyes.

I'm eating pasta not looking at Patricia across the table. She catches my eye once. Doesn't wink. Just holds my gaze for a second then looks away.

I'm either going to leave here the happiest man alive or in several pieces.

Possibly both.