Stranded on Bird Island

Temmuz 16, 2022 0 Yazar: admin

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Amateur

All characters in this story are over 18 years of age

I’ve tried to build a back-story in this one…

The launch approached the jetty in calm seas, salt spray whipped up by the nearby rocky outcrop wet my face and hair. I was then twenty-two and I’d only left here two months ago to work on the mainland, now dad was gone and mum needed my help to run the island.

Flanagan’s Rock Lighthouse, where I grew up, is one of only two on the East Coast that still has a live-in manager, not because the light needs it but because the ‘Lighthouse Keeper’ is responsible for the research station at the eastern plateau monitoring seabird habitat, marine habitat, a weather station and an experimental wave generator, amongst other duties. Mum couldn’t do it all herself, so she needed me after dad packed his bags and left, taking our only boat with him.

Flanagan’s Rock is really just the wind-denuded highest point on the unimaginatively-named Bird Island, which is one of five islands surrounded by shallow shoals 22 nautical miles from the mainland. Bird Island is a kilometer long and 350 meters at its widest and its claim to fame is that it has the largest surviving colony of the endangered Eastern Dwarf Seal.

It was a warmish day, and my mother sprang down the grassy bank to greet me with the breeze blowing her pale blue cotton dress tight against her body. I noticed an appreciative glance from Ronnie Mason as he eased the boat expertly beside the ageing wooden jetty. And why not enjoy the sight? Mum was forty-three, medium height, slender, blonde shoulder-length hair almost blown to right-angles in the breeze. Her breasts defy gravity. They are magnificent — easily C-cups, but on her slim frame they looked bigger. She must have found the perfect bra because they pointed outwards, separating into two round orbs the shape of which was clear thanks to the sea-level winds whipping about the place.

As she stepped onto the end of the short jetty, her thighs were at eye height and her thin cotton dress could not hide the length of her shapely legs, and for a moment my eyes settled on the gap between them, plainly outlined as she stood with her legs slightly apart.

I remembered a windy day like this, maybe two years before. Dad was doing the “obs” — the observations on the experiments — so was out of sight. I was helping mum bring in the washing. One advantage of a windy island is quick-drying laundry.

I heard mum curse and pulled the sheet I was wrestling with aside to see why. She’d dropped something and had bent to pick it up, just as a gust blew her dress up her legs and practically over her head. I gazed guiltily at her legs, her bum, and — in a slip of pale-yellow fabric between her legs, I momentarily saw a definite cleft. The outline of her pussy.

She stood and fought the dress and the wind ang got it back over herself. So high had it been blown that her navel was visible. Once she’d regained control she looked at me and said: “You OK there, sport?”

I mumbled something in embarrassment. A couple of minutes later we were trudging up the slope to the lighthouse carrying our baskets, and mum said: “Don’t worry, sport. Dad loves my bum too!”

I tried to smile at her tease, but all I could think of was that right now, I was horny. And it was because of my own mother.

I recalled another incident like that at about the same time. She’d slipped on wet grass navigating a slope and ended up sliding a few seconds, during which the friction pulled that day’s dress up her legs, which splayed apart in her distress. This time I got a glimpse of that forbidden delight between her legs from the front.

These images jumped into my head as Mum reached the boat and beamed at me while she greeted Ronnie. They chatted like old friends do — Ronnie has been running supplies across the strait for as long as we’ve been here, so more than thirteen years. He passed a few parcels to her as I threw my kitbag onto the jetty and climbed up out of the boat. And then, with a wave and a cheery goodbye, I was alone with my mother on the island. We strolled back to the ‘house’ with our arms around each other’s waists.

“Thanks for coming, Archie. I hope Sammy Hill wasn’t too upset you leaving the job so soon after starting?”

“No, he says you need me more than him and sends his best wishes. What happened with dad?”

“He hit me. After all these years…”

“Shit! You OK?”

“Yeah, it was a slap and it was over nothing. I told him to leave. It’s been hell this last year, son. He just got worse.”

“I’m sorry, mum. You gonna be OK?”

“Yeah. Now that you’re here.”

I squeezed her waist, she responded by settling her head on my shoulder as we walked. We reached the old weatherworn wooden door which creaked as we drew it open. We spent the next hour catching up with each other’s news until mum said: “OK, time for obs.” Meaning observations.

She disappeared into the bedroom and came out two minutes later wearing jeans and a V-neck heavy tee shirt. Today’s obs station was sheltered relaxbet güvenilirmi in a little dip in the grassy ground but to get to it we’d be negotiating the island’s smooth-rocked backbone in the full face of the wind. Like before. I had to admit I was a little disappointed she wasn’t wearing a dress. Mum shared the obs bags with me and we set off.

It took maybe thirty minutes to walk there and another hour to do the observations — it’s usually quicker but mum was refreshing me on how to do it — I’d be solo from tomorrow when it was my turn.

She pulled out some cool beers and we sat in the sheltered hollow. It was like someone had turned off a huge fan, so that we could talk at normal volumes now. Mum snuggled between my legs, her back to my chest. It was a familiar gesture and I knew she wanted a shoulder rub. I sipped my beer, propped it in the long grass and smoothed the shoulders of her top aside to gently caress her there. It took me half a minute to realise there were no bra straps. A glance downwards confirmed it: the fabric of her top was parted enough for me to see maybe two-thirds of those elegant, round orbs and her cleavage right down to the top of her stomach.

My thoughts found words that I hadn’t intended to speak: “You’re beautiful, mum.”

“Thankyou son. But maybe you shouldn’t say such things when you’re ogling my chest.”

“Oh, um…”

“Ssshhh. Don’t spoil it.”

I continued my stroking. Like a hundred times before. Had the air temperature gone up? And… Don’t ‘spoil’ what? I told myself to stop reading things into it. She caught me out and teased me, now she just wanted to enjoy my soft touch. Surely that was all? Or was I hoping that maybe that thing that happened before might somehow happen again?

She hadn’t moved and that meant I didn’t need to try hard to look down her top again. I think her eyes were closed in relaxation. I watched in guilty amazement as her breathing deepened and swelled her breasts rhythmically with each intake of that cool sea air.

I let my hands slide down the sides of her shoulders to push gently at the fabric of her top. As I continued my mind returned to another day just like this, not long after the wind-blown dress incident. I was doing the same thing; she was in a yellow bikini at the ‘beach’ — a strip of gravelly sand thirty meters wide on the north side of the island. I had pushed the thin straps aside, like now. I’d stroked, caressed, like now. That time I touched the front of her chest and her neck as well. I’d got bolder and stroked downwards. A little more each time, until my hands were cupping the upper shapes of both her breasts and my lowest fingers could have been no more than two finger-widths from her nipples.

I gulped at that thought. I had almost — almost touched my mother’s nipples. More than once. After a couple of minutes, she had sighed, pulled the straps of her bikini top back into place, and said: “I hear your father coming.”

So now, my mind raced at past possibilities. Probably she hadn’t realized how close my fingers were. No, what woman doesn’t know where her own nipples are? Another possibility came into my head. I thought for a good three minutes before my plan hatched. I cleared my throat and tried to sound like I was teasing in case she took offence, and as innocently as I could make it sound, I said: “So, not wearing a bra today mum?”

“Mmm? Oh, no.”

I hesitated at one end of a bridge you can’t un-cross. My throat was dry, and my heart sped up just a little.

My hands froze on her shoulders. It seemed like time stood still. She sensed it, I’m sure. She knew I was going to try to…

“Hungry, sport?”

“Huh?”

“Time for lunch.” She stood, pulled me up. I must have had a guilty look, but she kissed my cheek, put her cool hand where she’d kissed, and said: “You’re so sweet, darling.”

I ate my lunch through small-talk. I felt something. Something new and… taut. Like tension between me and mum. I was swallowing the last of my hot tea when I realized, for the first time, this was a sexual feeling. Sexual tension. Like when I’d almost ‘done it’ with Sandy Grayson at her sister’s wedding last year.

I watched mum fuss about, went to help. I stood behind her, put my arms around her waist and hugged, saying: “I’m sorry about you and dad.”

She snuggled back and said: “Don’t be. He changed, Archie. Quickly. And I felt unsafe out here on my own.”

“I’d never let anything bad happen, mum.”

She turned, still in my arms, and smiled. “I know, baby. I know you won’t.” Then she brushed my lips with hers. It was electric. And then I was beside her continuing our chores.

A few days passed. We took turns doing the obs. Mum made cakes and pies and all my favourites. At night we snuggled beside the old fireplace and talked while we listened to radio or watched TV. It was surreal. We were mother and son carrying on like youngsters exploring our first relationship. And like a youngster, I had a growing confusion about where it might lead.

Then relaxbet yeni giriş one night I crossed a mental bridge. I was having a shower, soaping up, and I saw mum’s panties and bra on the floor next to the laundry basket. I suddenly realized I desired her as a woman.

I went downstairs in my dressing gown, as usual, into the toasty-warm main room. Mum was there in her nightgown. This was unusual — she usually wore a dressing gown like me. The fire needed attention. Mum bent and put another log on it, and again I looked at her with new eyes. Silhouetted against the firelight, mum’s shape showed through the cotton fabric of her full-length nightgown. In the five seconds she bent there, I saw her breasts, unrestrained, hang low. Her waist and hips, from my viewpoint behind and to her left, were outlined by the fabric, and her bum strained it as she pulled the hem inwards with her free hand to make sure she didn’t get any sparks or embers on it.

I gulped. In my mind I raced over there and bent behind her to press myself into her and cup her breasts. My cock twitched and swelled. I put my hand over it and walked to the couch and sat down.

Mum dusted off her hands and turned, her back to the growing fire. Her feet were slightly apart, so again I got a silhouette of her. I wanted to look but not get caught. But I did capture two mental images — the impression of her nipples on the fabric, and the place her legs joined.

I didn’t know if she realized any of this, but I felt like I was radiating a beacon of discomfort. When she spoke, it was small-talk again: “Summer won’t be long coming. The nights are more cozy now.”

“Mmm. The wind will ease now too.”

“Yeah. I’ll be able to wear dresses again without fear of flashing my son!”

She had remembered. It was months — years ago but she remembered. I caught her eye and met her teasing challenge: “Wrong. You’re doing it now.”

“I am NOT!” she looked down, but of course from her angle she was not backlit by the fire.

“Are too.”

“OK then. What colour is my bra?”

“You’re not wearing one.”

“Lucky guess. Pretty obvious with tits like mine, too.”

She moved from the fire and sat near me, but not snuggled in as had become our custom.

“Thought I’d move away from there and play it safe, sport. I’m not wearing panties either.”

“I know.”

“Oh you little..! You didn’t look?”

I was enjoying this. So far it was a tease, not sexual really. I just sipped my hot chocolate and grinned at her over the rim of the mug.

But as usual, she outflanked me: “Yeah, well, I noticed you’ve got nothing on under there, either.”

How? How did she know that? I fell for it. I knew she had to be guessing but still I blushed and crossed my legs.

“Hah! Got you! Make sure it doesn’t flop out, sport!”

She pushed a button and the screen flickered bright as the movie started. It was a crime thriller, but I wasn’t really watching much of the time. Mum snuggled in at one point, and I returned in my mind to two themes. One was that half a millimetre of fabric was all that came between me and my mother’s naked body, and the other theme was that she’d teased me about looking at her body and about my penis. We are adults and blood relatives. That could not be innocent. Could it? And how the hell did I know? I’d had one girlfriend and no sex other than fumbling and an interrupted handjob.

With my arm around her shoulder, I occasionally glanced at my mum’s chest, there beside my own. I dared to watch her breathing. At one point in reaction to a shock scene in the movie, she stiffened and put her hand on my chest. She giggled at herself and relaxed. But the thrill made her nipples poke out and her hand had fallen to the knot around my waist. My mouth was dry. My cock had reacted, and her hand was close, so close to it.

I resolved that if it emerged from my gown I’d leave it and see what she did. It was a stupid plan, and immediately it failed anyway. Mum jumped up and said: “Pause it, will you? I’m going to the bathroom.”

While she was gone I made my stiff cock more comfortable. When she came back it was as if nothing had happened and we watched the rest of the movie and went to bed. I dreamed of her. In my dream she stood by the fire naked, while I opened my dressing gown and masturbated. She came closer so her pussy was an arm’s length away and touched herself, showed herself to me.

Almost mid-day the next day, I returned from the obs. A late spring shower drenched me and to avoid dripping all over the carpet I stripped part-way in the entrance, like I’d always done, to head to the shower. In just my underpants, I went through the open door and there was mum, stepping out of the shower, wet and naked. It took her a second to notice me. She hesitated, reached for a towel, and covered herself, saying: “I didn’t expect you back yet.” As she spoke, her eyes fell to my groin. I saw her blush, a frown cracked her forehead then cleared. I made no attempt this time to hide my growing erection, relaxbet giriş she glanced at it once more then motioned with one hand for me to leave. I did. But when it was my turn in the shower, I took hold of my cock and wanked urgently, her image burned into my head forever, and ejaculated quickly.

Fully dressed, I went down for lunch. We were due for another supply drop — I’d phoned the order in for her — but for now we were eating whatever was left which sometimes made for innovative combinations: “I’ve got cheese and pickle sandwiches with leftover cauliflower soup.”

“Perfect. Mum? Sorry about, um, walking in on you.”

“Don’t worry, Archie. It’s OK.” She sensed my discomfort and teased: “Pretty hot for a mum, right?”

I couldn’t tell her what I was really thinking, that ‘hot’ didn’t come close to describing how I thought of her, so I just smiled and nodded.

The next day dawned rosy-pink and yellow. I heard a clatter downstairs, mum was up already. I showered and went for breakfast. It was Sunday and the Sunday obs were more detailed. Mum decided to come with me.

It was quite warm, and only a gentle breeze. We wore jeans, me with a windcheater and her with a loose, thick v-neck tee shirt. We did the obs, and on the way back mum pulled me into a little patch of longer grass. We sat down and sipped cool drinks. Mum got between my legs, facing away, and I relaxed back onto a big tussock of grass that acted a little like a chair back.

I rubbed her shoulders, like a hundred other times. I caressed her neck and below her ears. I stroked the top of her chest, and back to her shoulders. I pushed the garment over her shoulders to uncover them. But this time, I didn’t just glance at her breasts, her cleavage, and stroke. This time I looked longingly at every part that I could see, and I massaged her as sensually as I knew how. I gulped, came to a decision.

Slowly, I stroked both my hands down the outside of her arms, cupped her elbows, then drew her arms aside slightly. With the backs of my hand against the insides or her upper arms, I touched gently at the sides of her breasts. She sighed, but gave no resistance, so I pressed there and rubbed very gently, but quite obviously so that my fingers went under her orbs while my thumbs were over them. She could be in no doubt. I was not massaging her now, I was cupping her breasts.

Then mum took a deep breath, and suddenly her top fell below her nipples. She’d pulled it down. I was looking there and I gasped when they popped up from their constraints and seemed to blink in the daylight.

Trembling with buck’s fever I put my hands under them and reached for the prize. Her heavy breasts nestled in my hands, her nipples, hard now, scratched the soft palms, and I just held them. Mum’s hands covered mine, holding them to her, pressing them into her soft flesh and making it spill past my fingers.

“Archie, I so need a man’s touch right now. Don’t hate me, OK?”

“Never. It’s OK mum. I understand.” I didn’t, but why spoil the moment?

She stood, turned, straddled my thighs and sat on my lap. There they were. The object of so many adolescent fantasies. Growing up alone on this island 48 weeks a year, she was the only woman I ever saw and that made her the subject of all my erotic daydreams and night-time fantasies.

Awkwardly I bent my head to nibble her dark brown nipples. She raised herself onto her knees and offered her breasts to me, cupping them together, encouraging me to pay each nipple equal attention.

Seagulls squawked and screeched above us, waves in the distance, the gentle wind — these sounds were blotted out when my mother said: “Touch me, baby. Please.”

She could mean only one thing. Still worshipping her nipples, I reached a hand between her legs and squeezed the heavy fabric there. Mum threw her head back and gasped. Her jeans were a nuisance, which she quickly dealt with. Her belt and button were open before I realized it, then her zipper. She pushed urgently at the stubborn fabric. I saw the top of pale blue panties. She pulled the elastic away from her stomach and let my exploring hand inside. Her jeans still made it awkward but I got my hand in, the musty heat was tangible, as was the dampness of the gusset of her panties on the back of my hand.

Curling my fingers I knew why. My ring and middle fingers folded inside her warm, wet pussy with no resistance. Mum was wet, very wet. I finger-fucked her gently, squeezing her between my fingers and the heel of my hand, rubbing the front of her pussy and wiggling my fingers inside it at the same time.

“Oh god, son. I need this. Oh god…”

As her hips rode my right hand, my left pinched her right nipple, hard, and it made her squirm even more. I bit the other nipple. Her thighs trembled. I had her triggers, and I played them hard. My hand was wet from her pussy juices, little squishy noises told me how open she was inside.

I kept up my assault. Mum’s thighs jerked and trembled more than once, until she suddenly pulled my head against her breasts and squealed through clenched teeth. This time her whole body shuddered. A wet flush on my hand and her whimpers announced her orgasm, sharp and all too brief, culminating in her clamping her thighs around my hand as her peak faded and the tension drained from her body.

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