Alice, My Best Friend's Mother - Part One

Alice, My Best Friend's Mother - Part One [part 1 of 3]
By: The Tall Man (thetallman34@orange.fr)

ALICE - MY BEST FRIEND'S MOTHER By The Tall Man (tallman034@aol.com)

I invite you to read this simple story without hurrying; try to enjoy a little of the youthful nostalgia I have tried to create, before racing to the climax, so to speak. Whether the whole pleases you or not, intelligent and sensible comments and discussion will always be welcome.

All characters in this story are over 18 years old.

Part One - "The first time......"

When you're a normal, healthy male teenager, big, fit and strong like I was then, you could justify, at least to yourself, thinking that you were probably indestructible and that you would live forever. In that period of your youth, two things are important: sport and sex. Everything else is a serious hindrance, getting in the way of these two key preoccupations of eighteen year old adolescent lives. School studies, home chores, errands, nothing counts like the enthusiastic, committed and energetic use, misuse and abuse of your fast-growing and changing body, and of course, its attachments.

Sport for me and my best friend Terry was running, jumping, standing still. It was hedonistic. Pushing our bodies to the limits of skill, endurance and then exhaustion, trying to prove, somehow without realising it, our inherent indestructibility. It was soccer, cricket, tennis, athletics and more. Terry was Bobby Moore and I was Gordon Banks. Then I was Ron Clarke and he was Mohammed Gammoudi battling out the Tokyo 1964 Olympic 10,000 metres final. Then we were someone else, world class sprinters, tennismen.

It rained, it snowed, the sun shone; we didn't care what the weather was like. We were out there, thrashing our bodies and our limitless sporting imaginations. We were kicking around our much-used, rain-soaked leather football, which hurt when we headed for goal, especially when we felt its razorsharp knotted lace on the forehead. Or ripping layers of skin off our knees, bums and thighs on frozen turf when we fell tackling each other for ball possession. Or running around the school grass track, stopwatch in hand, dry mouthed and sweating under the hot sun of summer afternoons, shirts off, burning our young shoulders.

Only the end of daylight on the sports field at the end of the day, the insistence of our parents, or the inevitable call from our bellies to fill up our reserves of energy dragged us away from these physical devotions; that was sport, for my pal Terry and me.

Sex was imagination and masturbation.

Terry I were inseparable after I helped him out of a one-sided school yard fight. He was not as physically developed as me, and needed a big hand when he was set upon by a group of half a dozen boys one day after school. We were roughly the same age, but I hardly knew Terry before then, since we didn't share the same class - he was brighter than me and had been elevated to a higher grade. I don't recall why the scrap began at all, maybe something to do with jealousy or just a nonsense argument that got out of hand; but I heard the rumpus and saw a howling crowd of schoolkids forming a circle around the action. When I saw the boots going in, poor Terry lying on the ground trying to make himself into a ball and protect what you might call his 'lower stomach', I simply reacted spontaneously to the unfairness of the attack, and waded in and thumped a couple of the most active and cowardly boys.

I was tall and quite wide for my age, and with solid early adolescent muscles. I was not quite Cassius Clay, and my wild punches fell on raised arms, but my bravado brought things to a quick conclusion. If the boy-thugs had all turned on me at once, I may have finished up as another battered human football on the ground with Terry. As it happened, the speed and ferocity of my timely intervention was enough to make the others simply back off. There was an eyeball to eyeball standoff that lasted all of half a minute, then suddenly the fray was over and the threat, and the crowd of onlookers melted away. I saw resentment, but genuine fear in the eyes of the enemy; I guess that's the power of aggressive surprise, the rapid commando force. I helped Terry get up and limp his way home, got smiling warm thanks plus tea and tinned salmon sandwiches from his mother, and from that day on, Terry and I were pals.

Though very different to each other in many ways, we began to share all our spare time together after school and as time went by, during weekends and holidays at the insistence of Terry's mother. I think she saw how well we got on together, and was pleased that he had such a close pal, with plenty of interests in common. Otherwise he may have finished up a loner.

Terry was ginger haired, small and lightweight, freckly and had what you might say, a 'pug nose'. He didn't look strong from an athletic point of view, but was wiry and tenacious as a fox terrier in any competitive situation. I was dark haired, taller and heavier, so in a fifty-fifty challenge for a football I usually prevailed. But running was Terry's real strength. I was a good jumper and thrower, and could beat him easily over short sprint distances, but in anything longer than 440 yards, the longer the better, Terry was a winner. He ran upright, with a short but rapid stride and interminable stamina. And in soccer, I was the goalkeeper to Terry's nippy inside-left guile, ball control and penalty taking. We enjoyed each other's competitiveness, whatever the event. We were best pals, and we never had a cross word, right up to the day he died.

Our friendship grew and grew. Soon, I started spending the happiest of weekends and holidays at Terry's home. He lived with his mother in a bought house. 'Bought' meant semi-detached, bay windows, no rent to pay. A small rosebed and driveway at the front with a car on it, a Morris 1000, and a big, lawned garden behind. And inside, carpets everywhere, classy, heavy furniture, a television. Later they got a telephone. You appreciate a house like that, when all you've been used to in your life is a terraced house rented from the council, with no garden front or back. We had no television and no car either at our house, until I was much older.

I was happy, living there with my mum and dad and my younger sister Carol in our council owned house, but our style of living was just not in the same class by a long way as that of Terry and his mum. My parents were of what you would call modest means, working class. Both manual workers, their education unfinished, obliged to leave school early to earn money and supplement their parents' budgets until they met each other and got married. Now, making all the various ends meet for their own family on their irregular and meagre wages, was a constant challenge. And they wanted Carol and me to have a better schooling than they had enjoyed, so all that made it tougher on their pockets. We were happy, and we got by, that's all I could say about those days.

Seeing how others lived was a real eye opener, and that's how it was when I was at Terry's house, where I was always treated really well. I didn't know whether his mother was rich, but she certainly wasn't as poor as we were, and didn't work either. For me those weekends and holidays were very, very special - luxurious in many ways, and I will never forget them as long as I live.

Especially that first full summer, when my sexual experiences began.

Terry's mother was called Alice, though I never called her Alice. I never called her Mrs Owens; I never called her anything. She always used my full name - Anthony - which I loved to hear, never calling me 'Tony' or 'Tone'. She was a widow, but I didn't know the details of her husband's death. There was quite an old framed photograph of a handsome, stocky, uniformed man on the wall over the fireplace; I thought he'd been a soldier, but Terry said he was a policeman, and that's all he knew, being a baby when his father died. If he knew any more, he never let on, and I never understood why he wouldn't have been curious about his own father. We just didn't talk about it.

Alice was the kindest, gentlest and most beautiful woman imaginable in the whole wide world. If that sounds like the words of a love-lorn teenager, then so be it. At the time, I didn't reflect on her age; she was just a grown woman, a mother; but she must have been in her late thirties. She was tall and slender, with long arms and shapely but strong looking legs, not an ounce of fat anywhere; she was also elegant and immaculate in her style and dress, whatever she wore. I loved to see her hips sway when she wore a 'Charleston' dress or skirt.

I imagined later, that my diminutive pal Terry must have taken after his dad, so different was he from his mother's intense beauty. She had deep brown eyes, a longish nose and very white, even teeth. Her pale flawless skin was totally absent of freckles, became lightly bronzed in summer. Her slightly wavy blond hair was always boyish short, delightfully exposing the curve of her pale neck.

Any youth such as I would be, of course obsessed with breasts and other bits of the female body, but it was her neck which fascinated me from the start. Even so, her slim body had all the feminine curves where they mattered, including grapefruit-sized breasts and a pouting, rounded bum below a slim waist. Such was the sum total of her woman's magnetism, her physique and personality, her smiling warmth and gaiety, her presence when she was in the room, it was hard not to keep looking at her. I never sensed her to be in any mood other than happy, and I probably fell in love with her right from the start, in my naïve, adolescent way.

To begin with, I shared Terry's bedroom with him, a large room by our own humble council house standards. There were twin single beds separated by a bedside table, wide wardrobes along one wall; there was a large crock washbasin with high mirror in the corner, by a French window which gave onto an iron staircase leading down to the neatest garden at the rear. Either in this room, or in the garden when we were not kicking a ball around somewhere else or running ourselves ragged, we had great times together, Terry and I.

Laughing and joking, reading sports magazines and imagining how it would be at the top of a sporting career, admired by the whole country for our physical prowess, breaking records, scoring hat-tricks, signing autographs, meeting te Queen. Sometimes we could be quiet, doing our homework together, last minute stuff. Mostly Terry helped me, rather than the other way round; he was brighter than me.

Then, ogling over well-thumbed pages of Playboy magazines, imagining how it would be to actually touch the breasts or the thighs of the women in the pictures, stick our young cocks into them. Or feeling up the girls in our school, especially the older ones, who had bigger tits. More than a little curious to see (one day) further into and between those casually positioned but cunningly photographed thighs into their dark, secret, hidden parts; it was called 'vagina' wasn't it, the sexual organ of a woman?

Talking about it, each of us feeling that astonishing power of adolescent erection inside our pants or underneath our pyjamas, then masturbating privately into our handkerchieves, unseen but with over-excited running commentary for the benefit of the other, under the bed covers after lights out. I never saw Terry's erect penis, nor he mine, and once or twice I actually wondered if he really was doing it like I was, if he actually could ejaculate yet. I never was able to confirm it. Otherwise, we shared everything in those happiest of weekends and holidays at Terry's house. Or almost.

I enjoyed especially breakfast time at Terry's house. We sat at a table in a bright new verandah just off the kitchen, on the east side of the house. Weekends we were usually a little late to get ourselves out of bed and Alice had already eaten, so she fussed around us, serving us big bowls of cereals and endless slices of toast with mugs of sweet tea.

I always sat facing the kitchen, where I could watch Alice glide around, floating almost, in perpetual motion, pausing only now and again to ask us if we wanted more, sometimes to ruffle Terry's hair, and call him 'Tel', which he hated. She did it to wind him up, of course; it was part of their incessant game, the heart of their relationship. She teased him a lot, and although he usually blushed and pretended to be embarrassed in front of me, I knew that he was pleased to have his beautiful mother's attention. As she floated, she often hummed some pop tune or other. Her favourite was Bobby Darin.

As she turned and twirled around us at the breakfast table, I was constantly aware of her light perfume in my nostrils. Whilst chatting away with Terry, my head rotated on its axis, as I watched the furls of her dress or skirt swirl around her very feminine hips and thighs. There was glass all around, in the verandah and the kitchen windows, and there was almost always light behind her, even on a dull day. This light allowed me to see the shadow of her body when she was wearing light clothing, the outline of her bra covered breasts, her bum cheeks, even her knickers. I imagined too, her nipples pushing against the inside cup of her bra, saw the bra straps behind her back. It was the nearest thing to heaven. My 'morning glory' became a throbbing nuisance under my Y-Front underpants, with a longing fuelled partly by what I saw and partly by what I imagined I saw, or longed to see one day.

I ached for Alice to tousle my hair too, like she did for Terry. To feel that soft hand, those manicured fingers on my head. My own mother, whom I loved to bits, had never been so attentive with Carol and me. She did everything necessary, and more, to raise us and care for us, but there was never that complicity which was so evident between Alice and Terry. I guess the absence of a father made the difference; Terry got all the attention the missing father didn't get. My own father was there in body, absent in spirit most of the time. My mother didn't neglect us; she attended to our every need. But she was a working woman, with rough hands, and she never bestowed upon us that gentleness, never that kind of caress that Terry received all the time when he was around his mother. It was clear that they were very close; Alice always had time for him, a gentle word, a teasing remark. They shared things. How I envied him; how I wanted to share that mother's affection with my best friend Terry, as well as all the other good things we had together.

Whatever the season, our free days together were mostly spent in sport, and then sometimes we would go to the cinema in the evenings. Alice would go with us if she felt like it, if the film appealed to her. It was a special treat to be seated one each side of her and begin to appreciate for the first time how sexually arousing and incredibly exciting for a young man can be the intimacy of a darkened cinema. For me, it was the highlight of a weekend, breathing in Alice's perfume, allowing my sometimes bare arm to touch accidentally, even press against hers on the armrest between us; feeling the throbbing of my penis in my Y-Fronts, stimulated by this simple closeness, this innocent physical contact with a grown female, the beautiful mother of my best friend. To hear her laugh at something in the film was musical; if the film was a frightener, letting out a squeal she would grip Terry's arm and mine and squeeze both at the same moment of terror. I loved that squeeze, it made my heart leap and my cock leap, and made it to throb harder.

Occasionally, Alice would turn towards us one at a time and pass a bag for us to dip in and choose a toffee. Her face would be so close to mine, her firm round breast would press against my arm. I was in paradise. I would twitch hard and long throughout each entire séance, not really wanting this precious, extended moment of pleasure to end, but nevertheless thinking all the time of rushing back to Terry's house and rubbing myself to a hasty climax under the bed clothes before going to sleep. On one occasion I did it in the cinema toilets, such was the intensity of my exitement that evening. The urge was so strong that I just couldn't wait, and so during the publicity I excused myself, almost ran to the toilets, where in very short time I was locked in a cubicle, had my trousers and Y-Fronts down to my ankles and was rubbing my swollen organ, whispering Alice's name and ejaculating powerfully into the w.c. pot.

Washing my hands for fear of anyone smelling the odour of my sex, then returning to the cinema flushed, but the colour of my cheeks unseen in the dark, I settled back into my seat next to Alice, my arm back against hers on the armrest between us. Breathing deeply her scent, before too long my young penis was filling up once again. Paradise resumed.

And so our weekends and holidays took shape, the seasons came and went, and I spent all the time possible at Terry's house. My mother began to refer to me as the prodigal son, which amused everybody at home. But these were delirious days for me, and my mother even remarked, not unhappily, how well behaved I was, and how the food bill seemed reduced since Terry and I had been pals. And how quiet it seemed at weekends; Carol was happy to see me out of the way, calming at least for two days and two nights a week the competitiveness which always exists between siblings when they are young. I sometimes wondered if my father even noticed, as he said very little, whether I was there or not. My mother said he was pleased that I was doing well at school, that's all.

Then, the following Spring, something quite unexpected happened at Terry's house, which would change my life forever.

It was a warm Saturday morning in late Spring, with clear blue skies and Summer temperatures already, in early June, the kind of balmy day we used to get way back then. Terry and I came down for breakfast late as usual, lightly dressed in shorts and short-sleeved shirts, ready for an active day, though our precise activities hadn't yet been formulated. I heard Alice's humming before we even got to the bottom of the stairs, and there she was floating hypnotically around the kitchen. I loved her neck, watched her mouth move with her singing a few broken lines of 'Things', one of Darin's older hits. Funny how songs often stick in your memory, remind you of important days or events in your life. Our bowls of cereal were ready and we tucked in.

As ever, I followed Alice's movements across the kitchen, in and out of the verandah, hoping to see the outlines of her body against the light coming through the glass. I was not disappointed; it was a brilliantly sunny morning, and the whole kitchen and verandah were flooded with brightness. I was able to see secretly every curve, every outline of underwear and body under her light cotton summer dress. Even better, the dress left her arms bare, was a little lower cut than usual, and as she bent over the table to place our toast and tea, I caught a glimpse of the sensual upper curve of her breasts for the very first time.

It was the best opportunity yet to lose myself in my fantasies, and of course I was harder than ever under my shorts and Y-Fronts. Luckily my significant bulge was well out of sight under the table; now and again, when Alice's back was turned and Terry wasn't looking my way, I would let my hand slip below to give my favourite toy a rub or a squeeze, whilst gazing at Alice's lovely bum cheeks, but mostly I just fidgeted, enjoying the friction of my underpants against my straining organ and the subsequent tingling sensation as it throbbed. Had we stayed there all morning, I'm sure I could have come in my Y-Fronts without more effort than that, the fidgeting and the constant friction, and the vision of loveliness before my young eyes.

As our rapid consumption of buttered toast began to slow down and our tea mugs were drained empty, Alice asked Terry to go get some more bread from the shop, insisting that otherwise, there would not be enough for our lunch packs later. We couldn't, after all run ourselves ragged all day without food. He made a face hopeless of reluctance, so Alice swept up behind him and tousled his hair in her teasing way and squeezed his neck hard, so that he ducked his head and squirmed under her hand. I thought, longingly: "I wish that was me she was touching".

After a moment of mock resistance, Terry got up from the table, Alice pressed a few coins into his hand and playfully tickled his ribs all the way to the verandah door. Then Terry said: "Come on, let's go Anthony". I made a lame excuse that I was going up to brush my teeth or some such, so Terry went alone to the shop. I think he was for an instant probably Armin Hary or Peter Radford en route to an impossible ten seconds dead 100 metres, the way he took off from his blocks that morning, but I forgot to ask him later. In no time at all he was out of the verandah and out of sight.

It was not brushing my teeth I had in mind, though - not straight away. After watching the outline of Alice's wispy underwear, her breasts and bum move under her dress against the light of the kitchen and verandah, my aroused organ required urgent attention. I couldn't wait to get up to the bedroom I shared with Terry and take advantage of his absence to masturbate privately, such had these amazing images stimulated my brain and penis during the last half hour.

I calculated I had at least fifteen minutes to complete the operation - more than enough, in my state of tumescence. Excusing myself rapidly, despite the impediment under my shorts, I was Lynn (the Leap) Davies as I sped upstairs, twenty six feet 5¾ inches exactly, and ran panting into the bedroom, dropping my shorts to my ankles and kicking them off as soon as I closed the door. My hardness sprung free and up, as I dragged off my Y-Fronts and shirt and threw them onto the thick carpeted floor near my bed. The cool air on my hot, sweaty genitals made me feel exceptionally excited, and I immediately took myself in hand. I was already rubbing the full length of my bulging-veined penis, thinking of Alice and her delectable body and the slope of her neck and her pale bare arms, and the curve of her real breasts that I had seen for the first time a short while ago.

I had to stop the friction as I dropped to my knees, fumbled under my bed and pulled out our only copy of a well-abused Playboy magazine. With my erection curved out and up, rigid and bobbing up and down, I padded over to the washbasin in the corner near the French window and looked at myself in the mirror above it. For a second or two I admired my young muscular frame, which I knew to be more developed than most boys of my age, with its adolescent hairs here and there, especially in the pubic region. I opened the magazine at a page which showed a colour picture of a blonde with the largest, big-nippled breasts in the whole edition and stood it up against the mirror, behind the taps so that it wouldn't tumble over.

I gazed at my pumped up teenage penis, imagined that it was the longest, the fattest and hardest, and the most potent in the universe, as it waved up proudly and throbbing, waiting for the attention which I had promised it a few moments before. I imagined what I might do with this indestructible weapon, if I had the opportunity to abuse a real woman like Alice. I lusted after those paper breasts in the Playboy magazine, and started to rub, too hard, too quickly. Too quickly, I needed to slow down, appreciate to the maximum the privacy and the intimacy I was sharing both with this unreal specimen of American printed fantasy womanhood and, in my head, with the most perfect of all best friends' mothers.

I slowed my pace - after all I had time before Terry would reappear. As I rubbed more lazily my turgid tool, my eyes closed, and I concentrated now on the image of the slender, adorable frame of Alice. But she was clothed; how I would love to see Alice in the same state of undress as this anonymous American pinup with bloated balloons. Alice with her flawless slim frame and grapefruit breasts, her perfectly rounded bum and long legs. Maybe even peek at her hairy sex triangle, something I had never seen, not in a magazine, not anywhere except sketched in school biology books. Playboy magazine didn't even show wisps of pubic hair in those days.

I rubbed and I rubbed, slowly and with a lightness of touch now dedicated to Alice, and I began to whisper her name over and over, trying to imagine that her fingers had replaced mine. Moisture oozed generously from the eye of my cock. Now and again, I opened my eyes, looking at my hand stroking the length of my organ, then casting my eyes over the large breasts before me in the magazine. I turned a page with my other hand, now saw the first afro-american Playgirl, coffee coloured breasts, big black bulging nipples, then eyes closed, back to Alice. My heart was beating fast. I gripped my fist around the length of my cock, placed my thumb against the engorged end, smoothed the glistening pre-cum around the head as I pumped, tingling with anticipation of my climax. I scratched the fingers of my free hand underneath my tightening balls, and I knew I couldn't hold out for long. Then something caught the corner of my eye. A movement.

I turned my head to the French window, and there was Alice.

Watering can in hand, her light cotton dress fluttered around her calves in a slight breeze, and she was bending over a pot of geraniums just outside, on the balcony top of the iron staircase. In that second or two, towering over her, I saw more of her breasts than I had been able to see at breakfast, and despite my embarrassment and the panic which was now beginning to bang in my chest, an intense throb jerked my penis within my fist, and I mentally photographed an image of those soft globes. They were real, not paper.

Alice jumped slightly as if startled to realise there was someone beside her, just the other side of the glass; her head suddenly turned towards me and water spilled from her watering can, missing the geranium pot over which she was bent and showering her pretty bare feet. I was caught.

Time seemed to stand still. She ignored her sopping feet, straightened up unbearably slowly, and without moving, looked expressionless into my eyes, then down at my crotch, which I could not hide; even with my hand around its length, an inch or two of my penis were still visible and there was no way to make that disappear instantly from view. Her mouth opened, her brow furrowed perceptibly, producing a puzzled expression on her face.

I was well and truly caught. My chest thudded, the blood rushed to my face and head. I saw that Alice's eyes were wide, her cheeks became flushed. Mine were even redder than hers, I was sure.

Alice half smiled, moved towards the French window, raised her free hand, as though waving hello or goodbye, I wasn't sure what the gesture meant. She dropped her hand onto the iron door handle, at the same instant placing the trembling watering can on the iron balcony and treating me to yet another glimpse of those pale, smooth orbs.

All thought of spurting my semen into the washbasin, dedicating my young seed to my friend's mother and to American breasthood, were now instantly forgotten. I came out of my quasi-hypnotic state and headed at almost a leap out of Alice's range of vision to the safety of my bed, grabbing the nearest thing, my Y-Fronts, from the floor as I sped. I was not fast enough, I had triple jumped in slow motion action replay. The door of the French windows opened inwards and Alice was in the room, barely six feet from the bed, before I had time to slip the Y-Fronts over my feet.

At a loss as to what I could possibly do to salvage the situation and my dignity, I dropped my naked buttocks down on the bed, clutching my underpants to my penis, which was slowly draining itself of blood, and closed my knees together. My heart and head were beating hard and loud with pure and perfect panic.

No words came out, my brain raced, searching for something to say. I saw that Alice was flushed. My head was down, I was fidgeting, squirming even, vainly trying to cover myself. I turned slightly sideways, towards the wall. And I wanted to disappear, knowing that there was nothing I could do to make the clock go backwards. 'What is done cannot be undone', my mother words echoed in my guilty subconscious.

I knew that Alice had to be looking down at me in extreme anger from just six feet away, and I was frozen to the bed with fear and shame. I heard her breathing.

All I could think of saying say was: "Sssssooo......". But she cut me short, hardly had I opened my mouth.

I heard her breathing. "Don't say anything" she said, quietly, very calmly, too calmly it seemed to me, in the circumstances. "It's alright, Anthony. Don't say a word".

Even now, here, in these few moments which would probably be the most embarrasing, terrible moments of my young life, to hear her say my name and those soothing words was just magical; my heart leapt, continued to beat hard and fast against my rib cage.

I tried again: "But, I'm......".

Again she cut me short with a "Ssshhhh...".

Up to now, she had stayed by the French window to my left, not moving, and I was there seated on the bed, half turned away from her, my head down, wishing I was invisible, or somewhere else - at the shop with Terry, playing football, at home, in detention punishment at school - dead, anywhere but here.

Then Alice moved, as though in ice-skating slow motion, towards me. Still looking down, I saw out of the corner of my eye her bare, dripping feet and ankles glide noiselessly across the carpet and come to rest only inches from mine. Then she sat down beside me, half turned in my direction, facing my trembling bare back and shoulders. The bed dipped slightly with her weight, bounced and settled, and I felt the lightness of her cotton dress flutter against my sweating skin. Her cool, soft hand came up to my shoulder and rested there, pulled slightly, as though to turn me round. I resisted, then complied, turning slowly my upper body towards her. We were now face to face, but still I did not have the courage to raise my thudding head, such was my youthful humiliation and turmoil.

Her soft voice again: "Anthony, dear, it's alright. Really. You musn't fret about this. There's nothing to be ashamed of....I'm sorry I came up the stairs at the wrong moment...I didn't think...I should have respected your privacy."

I began to stammer again, but she just said "Ssshhh...it's alright".

Then the most wonderful thing happened, something which I will treasure for the rest of my life. Without words, only gestures and coaxing sounds, Alice took hold of my scrumpled Y-Fronts, with which I had tried to cover my shame, and tugged them from my trembling, white-knuckled hands. Not violently, but firmly, as though not prepared to allow the slightest refusal. I held on for a second or two, then let go of them as they slipped away, replaced the underpants with my hands, cupped together over my half engorged penis, my sparse pubic hairs and testicles squashed between my thighs. I felt more naked than ever, vulnerable and foolish. Alice then leaned over and took both my hands in hers, her soft, pale, cool woman's hands with long slender fingers and short, manicured nails, pulling my hot fists away from my pubes and holding them up between us at breast level.

Letting go with one hand for a moment, she placed a palm on the side of my face, slid a couple of fingers under my chin, and raised my head so that she was able to look into my eyes for the first time since our encounter at the French window. I was flushed, there must have been a frightened and embarrassed look in my eyes, but I noticed an incredible kindness in hers, a softness to treasure, then a curious, delicate smile on her mouth. I heard her breathing, smelled her fragrance, and although her dark brown magnetic eyes held mine, I was aware of the closeness of her pale, swanlike neck, and the swell of her breasts just below, rising and falling. In any other such circumstances, any other moment in my life, I would have been several feet off the ground to have Alice so close to me and holding my face and hands.

Hesitating only a few seconds, her one hand stroking my cheek, her other hand dropped into my lap, very delicately coming to rest palm down on my half engorged penis. Closing her fingers over my semi-erect organ, she squeezed it ever so lightly and lifted it up, turned her hand around until it was underneath, fingers extended, with the head of my sex in her palm. I gasped as she closed her fingers again around my cock and squeezed delicately, and despite my confused state of mind, my hardness began to return very quickly, my growing stalk soon filled her hand and reached a state of considerable rigidity. The head of my cock was already moist, and became more moist with each passing second, as more pre-cum dribbled from its enlarged hole. Not knowing what to do with them, my own hands remained together motionless, raised up between her cotton covered grapefruit breasts and my own smooth, bare, thumping chest. I shivered.

Alice leaned her head to one side slightly, looked down at her hand and my penis within it, squeezed again ever so gently, then more firmly, and began to move her hand in a measured back and forth movement, the swollen head nudging her now moist, soft palm. My chest was hammering harder than ever. Her scent filled my head.

I thought I heard her breathe something like "Handsome" but it was faint. Despite my fear, my embarrassment and humilation of the last few minutes, my exitement was total, and with the manual attention Alice was now giving my penis, hardly any pressure was needed to bring me to a complete, pulsating erection; I knew that I would soon be ready to ejaculate. As she watched her hand gently and unhurriedly rubbing my swollen, blood engorged hardness, my eyes were drawn naturally to her adorable neck and down into the top of her dress and the curves of her breasts; rising and falling faster now, it seemed she was almost panting. I wanted to kiss that neck, those soft globes of female flesh, but I was frozen.

There was nothing I could do to stop this unplanned, unreal and unmerited but intensely pleasurable and exciting episode in my life. I deserved to go to hell, and would have gone there willingly in exchange for these moments of pleasure; here I was in an unimaginably heavenly place and time, with a woman who could have been mistaken for an angel.

My breathing became rapid, and I opened my panting mouth, tried to speak again. But somehow Alice knew that I was about to explode. She looked instantly into my eyes, her face only inches from mine, such that I could feel and smell her sweet, toothpaste breath wafting over me. She stroked my cheek, then placed her fingers onto my lips, forming a soundless "Ssshhhh......" with her own mouth, as my legs began to tremble.

I felt the most intense, familiar tingling in my balls, then it increased in intensity, lurched rapidly along the length of my cock to the swollen head, just before my semen erupted forth in a powerful jet - more powerful than I think I had ever experienced in my young life of masturbation up to that day. My rib cage hammered, my whole body shuddered; I gasped out loud, my head fell back and I closed my eyes. My hips jerked up, forward and back spontaneously, as my cock pulsed and throbbed again and again discharging its load, Alice kept her extended fingers firmly closed around the length of my pulsating cock, twisted her hand slightly and caught all the juice I had to offer in her palm.

I wanted this climax to go on forever; as it was, it seemed like a long time. My clenched hands separated and dropped down, falling quite naturally and without premeditation onto Alice's waist. I pressed my palms up against her rib cages, then down against her hips. My eyes opened, and still trembling in my lower body, I looked down into her cleavage again, up to her face, then to where her hand continued to clasp me and where now her finger and thumb were squeezing the pulsating head of my organ. Each tiny squeeze caused another eruption of pleasure at the end of my cock and a jerk of my lower body, and sent more seminal fluid seeping out, until every drop was drained from me.

As I panted wordlessly, she held my cock for a while longer, gently, lovingly I thought, without pressure, just holding it delicately and occasionally stroking it with her open fingers. Some of the seminal liquid dripped from her hand and began to run down onto my testicles, but Alice seemed unconcerned, just watching the thick, white slippery substance as though she was genuinely fascinated by its phenominal quantity, as though pondering secretly its life-giving qualities. Eyes sparkling, she looked up into mine, then down at her hand again, a beautiful, relaxed, reassuring smile on her soft face.

I will never forget that smile, and I knew instantly that I would love Alice for the rest of my days.

She let out a sigh, and this time I heard the word clearly: "Lovely....". I was still breathing hard as ever; I think tears formed in my eyes, I was so totally overwhelmed with pleasure and joy from sharing these treasured seconds of my youth with Alice.

Neither of us said anything for a few moments. Then, letting go of my deflating penis, disengaging her waist from my hands, Alice stood up unhurriedly, holding her cupped, semen filled hand raised in front of her. I watched her bare feet on the carpet, her hips swaying as she glided over to the washbasin, the scene of my initial humiliation and the turning point of my young life. She rinsed that one hand under the tap for a while, watched the water flowing over her fingers as if in a daze, as though contemplating the earth shattering significance of her recent act, then seemed to snap out of it and quickly washed both her hands with soap. As she did so, I watched her bend over and appear to look closely at the Playboy magazine still propped up behind the taps, still open at the page with the coffee coloured breasts. From across the room I surreptitipously admired her adorable bum, hips and shapely calves as she did this.

The, straightening up, drying her hands on a small towell, she looked into

the mirror, into my reflected eyes and her face lit up with a wonderful, wide mouthed smile, teeth glistening in the light from the French windows. A different kind of smile: the fun smile I had seen so many times when she was around the house during my visits, especially when she was teasing Terry.

She put down the towell, picked up the Playboy, turned around to where I was still sitting on the bed, silent and motionless, drained and entranced by what had just happened to me. She leaned back slightly, her bum resting against the washbasin.

Closing the Playboy and holding it up at shoulder level and waving it, the pages flickering noisily, she looked directly into my face, still fun-smiling and said quietly: " Perhaps you won't need this now, Anthony".

Still in shock, but my breathing and heartbeat beginning to calm down a little, I held her gaze, shook my head and smiled shyly, like a schoolboy who had just been scolded, then let out an embarrassed laugh, looking down again. My hands had found their way back to my crotch, to cover my shrunken penis and balls, and the now cold residue of seminal fluid upon them.

I imagined Alice's eyes following mine down to where I was looking, then my gaze returned to find hers again. I was aware of a few magical moments, where Alice stood calmly, unspeaking, looking down at me, smiling into my eyes, and I looked up at her with what she could only have interpreted as total adolescent love and adoration. She opened her mouth to speak and her body leaned towards me. I thought she was going to sit down beside me again, but then we both heard, at the same instant, Terry's panting and his slapping footsteps arriving downstairs at the verandah entrance. Maybe he was Peter Snell right then, just winning another 800 metres race by a street.

Alice and I leapt, simultaneously into wordless action. I was on my feet in a second. Alice slipped across to smile into my eyes, caress my cheek one last time with a cool, freshly washed hand, wafting the odour of Lux toilet soap into my nostrils, before spinning around and leaving the bedroom the way she had come in, pulling the door of the French windows silently closed behind her. I wanted to touch her, kiss her, caress her adorable neck, anything. I wanted to tell her how I felt, garble my eternal love for her.

But she was gone in less than a heartbeat. Naked, I strode over to the French windows and watched her back, her hand on the rail, her long pale neck, and the flow of her cotton summer dress flutter across her strong, shapely legs and hips, as she descended the iron staircase like a light footed athlete, two steps at a time into the garden below. She could have been Mary Rand, but she was the greatest love of my young life.

By the time Terry had put the loaf of fresh bread on the kitchen worktop, had searched downstairs for me and his mother, and finding no-one, had bounded breathlessly up the stairs to the bedroom we shared, I was dressed and brushing my teeth. I tried to be relaxed and calm, though my mind and heart were spinning in turmoil. I had just experienced something which was, at my tender age, nothing less than incredible. An event beyond any of my adolescent imaginings, which could have taken place only somewhere in my wildest fantasies, before that totally life-transforming day in summer. Only a few minutes before, I had felt extremes of sexual pleasure at the hands of the most beautiful woman on earth. This was something I knew I couldn't, and never would, share with my best friend Terry, the son of that same most beautiful woman on earth.

The story does not end here. Look out for Alice, My Best Friend's Mother - Part Two, coming shortly.....