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Willow: My Mother, My Lover
As the door to their bedroom was half open, I barged in without pausing. My mother, Rowan, was standing with her back to the room talking into her mobile, her naked body reflected in the mirror of the dressing table. My heart gave a jump. It was like looking at a reflection of my newly found lover and, true to its reaction to that reflection, a reaction acquired over the past week, my cock began to stiffen and grow and thrust against the flimsy confines of my lacy nylon panties and the light summer skirt that I’d exchanged for my jeans on my journey back from the airport.
‘Might have been better if you’d knocked,’ my mother rebuked me mildly, as she caught sight of my reflection in her mirror. ‘Mind you’ she added with a little grin on her face as she looked deliberately at my tented out skirt front, ‘it’s nice to know that, even at my age, a girl can still evoke that kind of reception.’
I suppose there comes a moment in everyone’s life when they realise that their parent is a sexual being in their own right, that they have needs and desires and that they have bodies that react and function like everyone else’s. That moment for me came at the sight of my mother’s reflected naked beauty – her sallow but flawless skin, pretty tight little breasts, B-cup at most, with pert nipples and bubbling aureole, flat stomach and slim waist descending into a slightly mounded shaven pudenda, and shapely hips and legs; surmounted by an elfin face and rich chestnut hair cut in ‘Pageboy’ style – a beauty that filled me with a sudden, bewilderingly intense desire. The same desire I’d experienced when I’d stood on our hotel room balcony with a naked Hazel, and looked at the star studied night sky. And that desire had led to Hazel and me becoming lovers within minutes of that arousal.
My mother and Hazel, whom I’d called ‘Aunty Hazel’ for the first twelve or so years of my life until her true relation ship of cousin to my mother and therefore to me had been explained, that woman who had become my lover … my first and only lover, were children of sisters who had married brothers. By their looks and temperaments they could have been sisters at least, if not twins.
Until Hazel and I shared a bedroom and a bed in that hotel in France, I’d never really been consciously aware of any sexual desire for any specific woman … or man. Maybe, my sexuality had been satisfied by my transformation from William into Willow, subsumed into the effort needed for me to continue maintaining that feminine alter-ego; a transformation that had begun nearly six years before in experimentation following the use of a chance sobriquet by a master at school. By now most of the time I felt as much feminine as masculine … maybe more feminine. Now I was faced with the sudden knowledge that the very masculine arousal and desire that Hazel had awakened in me was now replicated by equally masculine feelings for my mother – as a woman, as a lover.
[Willow’s relationship with Hazel and Rowan, and the explanation of Willow’s transformation from William, are recorded in ‘A story of Forbidden Love, Chapters 1, 2 and 3.1’ fp]
I didn’t realise then of course that, like the exchange between Hazel and Marianne in the hotel in France, the whole episode that led to my discovering my mother naked in her bedroom was staged. bahis firmaları Hazel had been in constant contact with my mother since we’d landed, and during the drive back home, by text. It was my mother who had ensured the phone rang as we entered; and Hazel had ensured she was first to cross the threshold and pick up the hall ‘phone. And my mother had had plenty of time to ensure she was naked, place herself in front of the dressing table mirror and arrange the open bedroom door.
Still troubled by my arousal I left the room to enter my own, unpack, strip, shower and change for the evening meal that my mother had prepared.
With my body back under control – under a slim skirted, sleeveless, collarless summer dress and lacy satin lingerie – I descended the stairs to find the two of them waiting to start eating. During the early part of the meal we reported the outcome of our meetings and discussed the implications for the family perfumery business. Hazel was fulsome in her appreciation of my efforts to assist, particularly in the area of translation.
‘Willow was invaluable,’ she told my mother, ‘it’ll pay us to make sure she’s … he’s always with us when we’re over there – and probably anywhere else on the Continent for that matter.’
We do a lot of work with European growers and perfumeries.
Towards the latter stages of the meal we got to talking about the trip generally; and Hazel let slip that we’d shared a double room, and a bed. My mother grinned.
‘How did that work out? Remember I know your sleeping habits, particularly what you like to wear in bed’, she said. ‘Tell me, did you remember to take a nightie with you?’
Hazel grinned in turn.
‘No, I didn’t think about it,’ she said. ‘I tried borrowing one of Willow’s nightdresses and wearing that and my panties. But I couldn’t cope with it. Willow had to get used to me sleeping in the buff we … managed okay.’
For a moment there my heart had been in my mouth, wondering if she was going to admit to our intimacy. It seemed not, and I wasn’t about to admit it either. I needn’t have worried; my mother was already well aware of the Hazel’s planned seduction, and of the successful outcome.
It was strange, after a week spent sleeping with my cousin – in both senses – to retire that night to a solitary bed. It wasn’t helped by the sounds of a lover’s reunion that emanated from their suite, but eventually I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by a sense of movement in my room. As I started and raised myself my cousin slid into my bed beside me, naked as usual, making reassuring noises in her throat and beginning her now accustomed routine of caressing and arousing my body through the lace trimmed satin of my nightdress and French knickers.
My body’s response was immediate; I could feel the nerve ends of my dermis tingling and electrifying, the tiny nipples and aureole on my masculine breasts expanded and stiffened, my breasts themselves tingling; blood and adrenaline pulsing into my cock. However, I knew better than to impose my desire on my cousin. Within that last week she had taught me to linger over her delicious nakedness, using my own body – my fingers, lips, teeth and tongue to ensure that she too was aroused and stimulated almost to the point of agony, before she consented to straddle me and kaçak iddaa take me into the deep velvet strength of her innermost being. I knew better too not to remove either my nightdress or my knickers. My cousin liked to posses my masculinity as it reared up out from the delicate femininity that had become my established adornment, surrounded at its root with the frothy lace trim of my loose knicker leg and the disrupted skirt of my nightdress.
We eventually slept.
Again, I was awoken by a sense of movement I my room. Sometime in the early hours Hazel had left my bed to return to my mother. Dawn had now broken and the room was flooded by early morning sunlight, to reveal both Hazel and my mother stood beside by bed, both as naked as had been the night-time visitation of my cousin.
The vision of those two sallow skinned but flawless almost identical figures, pretty, pert nippled breasts and bubbling aureole, flat stomachs and slim waists, slightly mounded shaven pudenda, firm buttocks, shapely hips and legs; each surmounted by an elfin face and short but rich chestnut hair, called up an instant response in my body.
My mother raised a finger to her lips as the two of them slid into my bed on opposite sides. As they relaxed into the bed I felt two hands, one from each side, gently burrowing under the skirt of my nightdress to find and gently grasp and caress my, by now, massively tumescent cock.
‘It’s not to surprising that Hazel wanted this inside her,’ my mother murmured in my ear, a warm smile on her face. ‘My darling, we’ve got so used to thinking of you as a girl; that it comes as a bit of shock to realise that you’ve got … “other attributes” that make you more than just our own darling Willow, but as a separate and unique sexual creature in your own right – and a highly desirable one. We wouldn’t want you to change because you’ve become your cousin’s lover, not unless you desire it. And,’ suddenly, it was though my mother was in some kind of confessional, as her tone took a subtle transformation almost into an attitude of supplication, ‘I want … I need you to become my lover, too! But again only … only if you want it, too!’
When my Great Grandfather had inherited the family perfumery trading laws had been such that Sunday opening wasn’t an option. He had seen no reason to alter the situation when Sunday trading laws relaxed. He considered that, completely regardless of any individual religious belief, all staff needed one set day when they knew they could all relax – together if they felt so inclined. He also ensured that all staff members had one complete extra day off during the week. Now dependent upon personal belief, or lack of it, that could be either Friday Saturday or Monday. Work schedules and staff numbers, inclusive of part time staff, were arranged to accommodate this.
In their turn, my mother and Hazel had seen no need to change those conditions.
Great Gran and Grandfather were both irregular attendees at the central Methodist Church. Without exerting any pressure they encouraged us, my mother Hazel and me, to follow that same attendance pattern – a habit we retained even after Gran’s death.
This day was a Sunday. The three of us had no reason to prepare for work; preparation of any kind was also, if not forbidden, at least discouraged kaçak bahis on rest days; and we had not planned to visit the Chapel that morning. In any case, in the event, we didn’t arise until after midday.
It was the first time that I shared my bed … a bed with those two precious and caring women; those women who knew me intimately, had witnessed and assisted my transformation from a closet transvestite into an assured feminine being – albeit one with a masculine body – and with whom my life was shared and centred. I had during the previous week or so become used to the alternately softly yielding and thrustingly demanding body of my cousin; now within my bed and sharing their bodies with me and mine with them were the two people who had become so much to me.
Learning to loving and be loved by Hazel had been a revelation and a delight; now the experience of two such assured and experienced lovers using their bodies and mine to pleasure one-an-other and me, and to teach me how to respond, how to conserve my limited masculine capacity by interlacing the feminine arts my cousin had introduced me to, produced an even greater ecstasy. It was difficult, in the growing euphoria of the experience, to remain fully aware of whether I was caressing my mother’s body, or my cousin’s – who’s firm tight, bullet pointed breast was in my mouth or under my fingers; which of the two sweet, musky havens, or tough, throbbing little stalks, my lips, tongue and teeth were addressing; which sweet lips were enfolding my cock, or which sweet quim was allowing me to possess it.
Of course, I didn’t learn how to participate fully immediately, but it quickly became our custom to continue to share our sleeping arrangements – just as we shared most of our working and leisure hours. As my mother had suggested, I didn’t change my adopted life-style, even though I’d now become their lover. I was too used to the assurance I’d developed by assuming a feminine persona. I continued to dress and deport myself as a girl … a woman both daytime and night time. Both of my lovers preferred to sleep ‘au natural’, despite my newly acquired status as their consort – or maybe in part because of my somewhat ambiguous male/female role in that position – I preferred to sleep in nightdress and matching French knickers, a mode of dress that they both professed to prefer. Maybe, to, on their part it was an unconscious acknowledgement of their own predilection for their own sex – bisexual as both them were.
A few weeks after our return from France, our new situation having become more-or-less established, I descended the stairs on my way to work. Hazel and my mother had already gone, to the shop in the centre of the city, I was going down to our outlet on the quayside. As I stopped to check my make-up and pick up a light jacket, the door bell rang.
I opened the door.
I could have been looking in a mirror, down to the waist at least. The slender, small breasted form, in a tidy, long sleeved white cotton blouse, was surmounted by a pale, slightly freckled, subtly made-up face, with a cascade of deep auburn hair swept back into an abundant pony tail, secured with a single emerald green ribbon. Only below the waist was there a difference. I was clad in a short, slender fitting skirt, the same colour as my hair ribbon, and pale green nylon stockings. She was wearing a pair of neatly tailored, closely fitting trousers – also emerald green. Our feet were shod with identical light flat shoes that, again, echoed the colour of our respective skirt and trousers.
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