Colouring mum's hair

Colouring Mum's Hair

The following is part biographical, part fiction.

"I wish this bloody hill wasn't here. Or we lived somewhere nearer school," I thought, for about the 400th time since I'd attended secondary school. It was September 1979 and the school term had started 2 weeks earlier. A two and a half mile walk, all the way uphill along the country road and lanes. This was the beginning of my 4th year so there was a lot more trudging to be done. Then 5th year! Then 6th form! Shit!

And the weather had got hotter. Typical, a crap summer, school starts and now the sun comes out. I could feel the sweat beading down my brow, my back and legs. I'd taken my blazer off, loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt collar but I could feel the heat of the sun through my black school trousers. As soon as I was home I'd gulp down a glass of water then be out of this uniform and into a pair of shorts.

Beside me my little sister, as always, seemed to be taking the walk in her stride. She was chattering on about what she'd done that day, but I was hardly paying attention. As my granny Booth, my maternal grandmother always said, 'Your Janis could talk the hind legs off a donkey'. Janis had just started her 2nd year and wasn't yet five foot tall, but she could out-walk and run me if she wanted, even if I was a good 10 inches taller than her. She was built like a little gazelle and did gymnastics, swimming and running in the school teams. She already had a nickname 'the red streak', after her ginger hair and speed, both attributes she had inherited from our father. And she was a school prefect. Suitable, seeing as she liked to boss people about and had a look that could freeze you in your place. Hence my nickname for her: 'freckle-faced little ginger twat'.

So she was happily sauntering along in full school uniform as if she was out for a gentle stroll. She hadn't even removed her blazer (prefect badge gleaming in the sunlight) and her straw boater remained on her head. Probably sensible as, being a redhead, she was more prone to sunburn. And being a prefect she made damned sure she set an example. School tie in place and all shirt buttons fastened, regulation-length skirt was just above her knees and her regulation blue socks just below, leaving only the pale flesh of her kneecaps on display. No doubt she had added a white vest. She certainly didn't need a bra. Still flat as a pancake. And of course regulation navy blue knickers. Finished off with her gleaming Clarks black patent leather buckle shoes (unlike my scuffed Doc Martens).

At last I saw the hedge to our house and my pace quickened a bit. Our house, an old farmhouse, was set back from the road in a couple of acres of land. My father, an architect, had bought it cheaply as a rundown property and restored it as a project. This was before he met my mother. When they did meet she was a 2nd year fashion and design undergraduate and he was a guest lecturer at the university, having graduated from there some 12 summers previously. Highly talented, he quickly gained an international reputation in historic property restoration and established a successful partnership.

She had attended one on his lectures on Tudor design and was immediately smitten with him. She collared him at the end of his lecture with questions and made it clear she was interested in him, as well as what he had to say. According to mum she impressed him with her mind (well, she would say that), talked him into having a drink with her and, by the time she was in her 3rd year they were married. No fancy white wedding, a trip to the local registry office with a few friends then off to Crete for an Easter honeymoon. Mum says they only got married to keep their traditional parents off their backs. Hers weren't best pleased when they heard she was courting: "Get your degree first, Lana. Goodness, girl!" And when they were told she was pregnant they behaved like most bourgeoisie parents of the time (are they any different now?): shock, horror. At least the wedding meant my grandparents could continue to show their, slightly embarrassed, faces in polite society, as long as no-one asked to see photos (there weren't any).

Three months after she graduated I was born and almost two years later the 'freckle-faced little ginger twat' completed the British nuclear family (male and female parents, 2 offspring; one male, one female). All went well until just after I started secondary school. Flying back from a conference in Italy my dad's plane crashed, killing everyone on board.

It almost destroyed my mum. She and my dad had been soul-mates and, for over a year, she was in a daze. Friends and family rallied round, seeing that Janis and I were comforted and cared for. Naturally, we cried at the loss of our father but recovered, as c***dren do. For months mum barely ate and would drink too much. She lost weight, not that had much to start with.

Always slim, about 5' 7", she had retained her figure, despite two pregnancies. Friends at school said she was 'sexy' and had a look of Farrah Fawcett-Majors, with her "... long, wavy blonde hair, blue eyes and bog boobies." Simon Johnson even asked if she was the tennis girl in the poster scratching her bare bum (I didn't tell him I had the poster on the back of my bedroom door). I hadn't really noticed, to be honest, she was just 'mum' to me. And her breasts weren't that big. A 34C, according to her bras. Not that she wore a bra that often. She had retained her neo-hippy propensity for going braless and even I had not failed to notice that she also compared to Farrah in the nipple department. "Very embarrassing," I though when in town with her, as passers-by stared, smiled and even wolf-whistled. And she was what my friends sniggeringly referred to as a 'double-bouncer'. Mum didn't seem to notice that a cheesecloth blouse and white gypsy skirt were almost transparent, much less a Stirling Cooper crochet dress. Thank god she wore panties when she went out!

Having graduated with a design and fashion degree she was forever changing her style, to keep up to date and had wardrobe after wardrobe of clothes dating back to the 60s. Quite the chameleon, she changed her hair, makeup and clothes to suit the look of the time. Dad told me he immediately thought of Twiggy the first time he met her, with her pixie hairstyle, long false eyelashes and Mary Quant mini-dress. Even now, in her 70s, she can match Twiggy and Joanna Lumley for looks and fashion! And she's kept her figure and looks, without Botox or surgery! A GILF in every sense of the term. She hates the "...trout pout, plastic tits and fat-injected arses. And the vacant looks on their faces! Not attractive, James. Not in the least attractive ..." type that seem to dominate popular media programmes such as 'Love Island' and 'Real Housewives of ...'.

Back then she worked sporadically, as we were what used to be described as 'comfortably off'. Money from my father's business (mum retained a seat on the Board), insurance money following his death and savings left us financially solvent. Most of the work she did was design commissions for films and TV programmes. Designing costumes for historical dramas, that sort of thing. It wasn't unusual to come home to 3 or 4 costume designers altering or putting the finishing touches to costumes mum had designed. All very loud, jovial and camp, wine flowing freely and the pungent smell of marijuana drifting outside the house.

On such occasions Janis would not approve; looking daggers at all concerned she would pout, tut, groan and storm off to her bedroom, slamming every door on the way. Mum's response was always the same, giggling and informing everyone in the room: "Hard to believe I named her after Janis Joplin," resulting in even more uproarious laughter. I was glad when I saw mum like this. She was happy and doing what she loved. For there were too many days when she would mourn my father's loss, drink by herself and play music loud enough to send the cats outdoors.

As we walked up the gravel drive to the house I could hear 'The Scream' by Siouxsie and the Banshees blasting out.

"No, no, no, no, no," groaned my sister. "I have homework to do. How can she be so selfish? She knows I can't abide that noise when I'm at home. I just hope she hasn't got any of those awful, awful people with her. There really is no need." With an exasperated sigh she looked to me for support.

"Chill, dudette," I suggested. "Don't freak out. She's been working hard all week so she's cool. And there's no other cars parked so she must be on her own." That now made me the target.

"First of all," announced my sister in a voice that reminded me of my grandmother Booth. "Please do not use those ridiculous vernacular terms, which of course you have copied from her. And second, I too have been working hard all week and have more work to do. I simply want peace and quiet in which to do it."

I really wanted to say: "You should have been named Violet Elizabeth, you freckle-faced little ginger twat," but thought better of it. I simply smiled at the daggers emanating from her piercing green eyes and kept walking towards home.

Entering through the back scullery I loudly announced our arrival, dumping my schoolbag and throwing my blazer over the back of a kitchen chair. Mistake. More evil eye from the prefect. She took off her boater and blazer and hung them on the coat rack. Ignoring her I walked along the hallway towards the origin of the music, mum's workroom on the left. As I entered she had her back to me, swaying to the music, her head thrown back, eyes closed. She obviously hadn't heard us over the deafening music.

Dressed only in a black silk chemise the milky skin of her back, arms and legs stood out in contrast. Lifting her arms high over her head the slip rose up, exposing her small bum cheeks. I gulped at the sight. It wasn't the first time I had seen her behind, as she thought nothing of walking naked from her bedroom and she shared baths with my sister and I when we were younger. However, watching her hips undulating, her legs spread was different. For a moment I was watching the blonde from Legs & Co, not my mother. Unable to help myself my eyes followed the line between her cheeks down to the gap at the top of her legs. I gasped as I realised I was looking at the downy fur of her vagina lips. I was jolted out of my trance as I felt a blow on my back pushing me forward off balance.

"Mother!" Janis screeched, pushing past me and heading straight for the music centre "Is there really any need? Honestly!" Mum spun around, the look of surprise turning to a wide smile. Momentarily her arms were still above her head and I could now see the triangle of pubic hair. I quickly averted my eyes just as Janis stopped the music and snapped: "You're not even dressed!"

"Darlings, you're home," trilled my mother. "Oh, is that the time?" she added. "I'm so, so, soooo sorry. I finished my work and the vibes were good, so I got a bit freaky. It's very warm, too warm for lots of clothes."

Turning to my sister she cupped her face in both hands and planted a loud 'mwah' kiss on her forehead. "Did you have a good day at school, dear?" she asked. "I'm sure you did," she continued without waiting for answer. "You always do. Now I'm sure you'll want to get changed and get on with your homework, you're so conscientious. So you run along, sweetie. Mummy will call you when dinner's ready." Another attempted kiss but Janis was already exiting the room.

"Keep it real, chick! Keep on keepin' on!" my mother called, a smirk on her face contrasting with Janis's scowl.

"So much like her granny," she mouthed to me as Janis made her way upstairs to her room. "She's so heavy. They do say things skip a generation. Can't wait to see how her c***dren turn out. They'll drive her potty, I'll bet," she tittered.

I could see from my mother's eyes that she wasn't stoned and was just tipsy, rather than full-on drunk. And like me she used the slang terms to wind Janis up. Worked every time. The wine glass attested to the fact she had had something to drink but she was genuinely on a high from completing her latest project.

The Elizabethan costume on the mannequin was astonishing. Made for the actress who would play Elizabeth the 1st it was gleaming white, a pattern of a white rose woven into the voluminous skirts, then various flowers and jewels laboriously sewn in. The low cut bodice barely covered the mannequin's breasts, a border of taffeta providing some modesty. Further taffeta served as a huge collar, though the neck was bare save for a jewelled necklace and long string of pearls. Mother had added further jewels and pearls to a huge wig. I whistled in appreciation.

"That's beautiful, mum," I said. "You're so talented."

"Why, thank you, kind sir," she laughed in mock-Elizabethan parlance. "Though I can't claim all the credit. Copied from a portrait at the time. I don't know if the original dress was made. It would have cost an absolute fortune, based on the diamonds, rubies, garnets, pearls and silk involved. And so heavy to wear! Not a dress for grooving in!"

"I thought she always wore high collars. Virgin queen and all that," I queried.

"She did, although there are a number of portraits of her with exposed cleavage and this is what I was commissioned to produce. Now," she continued. "I think I deserve a reward for all my hard work. Have a look at this."

Crossing to her desk she took up her wine glass and with her other hand a magazine with the page open to a photograph of Siouxsie Sioux, her jet black hair standing on end in numerous spikes. I had seen her perform with her band on 'top of the Pops' and of course, heard mum play her records numerous times.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" I replied?

"Her hair. What do you think of her hair?"

"Well, it's her, isn't it. Punk. Rad. Goes with the make-up and the scene. And her black leather gear."

"I want a change of look. And hair like Siouxsie's."

"What, like spiked?"

"Jet black and spiked," she announced.

"Serious?"

"Serious," she confirmed, looking at me over the rim of her wine glass, as she took a sip.

"Um, don't you think ... er ... you're a little ..," I began.

"I do hope" she purred, sashaying towards me, her head low, eyes looking up at me, the wine glass rim pushing down on her scarlet bottom lip, "you're not going to use the o word, babes."

To say I was stunned was an understatement. Mum was inches from me, looking up at me like a cat stalking prey. The points of her nipples were poking visibly at the delicate fabric of her slip. I could smell a mixture of wine, her perfume (L'Heure Bleue), sweat and an odour I couldn't define. Musky, strong but not unpleasant. I was beginning to sweat again, flustered by mum's demeanour.

"N-n-n-n ... noooooo," I stammered. "A little too nice. I was going to say you were a little too nice to be looking like Siouxsie."

"Awwww, how lovely. Still think I'm too nice, darling?" she asked smirking, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"No. Yes. I mean ... you know what I mean."

"See," she announced triumphantly. "Siouxsie's not the only one who can give smouldering looks and play the femme fatale. And that's without the dark eyeliner. "Now," she added, stepping away and transforming once again into my slightly tipsy pleasant mother, "I'd like you to help me dye my hair."

"What!?" I blurted. "I don't know how to dye hair. Can't you go to a hairdresser or get one of your friends to do it? Or ask Janis?"

"It's quite a simple process really, dear. No need for a hairdresser and I want it to be a surprise for my friends. And Janis? Janis? You trippin', man?" she laughed. "Look, I've got everything prepared in my bathroom. All you have to do is rub the stuff on to my hair, wait 30 minutes and wash out the excess."

"Now? I need to get changed and I've homework to do. Can't we do it tomorrow?"

"Oh, please," she pleaded. "Do this for me, darling. It will mean so much to me."

"OK, then," I agreed. "Just let me have a shower and get changed."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she chanted, clapping her hands and bouncing up and down on her tiptoes, a huge grin on her face. Once more I could not help but follow the bounce of her breasts, this time they were threatening to spill over the top of the plunging neckline, and glance at the hemline as it floated up and down her milky thighs. "Meet me in my room in half an hour. I'll just go and set the table for dinner. Salad, I think. Much, much too hot for a cooked meal." And with that she was gone.

Grabbing a couple of biscuits and my school satchel from the scullery I went upstairs. I walked past my mum's and Janis's rooms, front right and left respectively and made my way to my bedroom, behind mum's. Typical 70s boy's room; posters on the wall (Bowie, Sex Pistols, The Jam, A Clockwork Orange, Enter the Dragon, Man Utd, etc.), couple of Airfix models dangling from the roof, lava lamp and alarm clock on bedside table, book-case, desk, chest of drawers and wardrobe, single bed. The one thing I did have in common with Janis is that I kept my room tidy. No clothes and bits and bats s**ttered on the floor.

The bathroom was opposite my room and I was glad to see the door was open. I quickly scoffed the biccies and disrobed. The last thing I wanted was to wait on Janis using the shower. She'd take more than half an hour.

As I showered I thought of the job ahead and the memory of mum in her chemise. There was no denying it; my cock had more than twitched at the sight of her naked arse and pussy, mother or not. I reasoned it was simply an involuntary reflex action, like a knee-jerk. That made it worse! That meant I had no control of my sexual urges. That couldn't be right. She was my mum and sons are not meant to find their mothers sexually attractive, even if they are attractive per se. As I pondered this I realised I had been soaping my cock, which was now aching, semi-rigid and an unmistakable clear strand of pre-cum was leaking from it. I had to get this under control or I'd be in trouble. Turning the handle to 'Cold' helped. The chilly water aimed at the recalcitrant member soon did the trick. Rinsing the soap from my body I grabbed a bath towel and began drying myself off, taking care not to spend too long on my cock and balls.

Back in my room I retrieved the pair of Adidas shorts I'd been wearing all week from the chest of drawers. They were all I'd been wearing in the hot spell. Even with my bedroom window open the room was still sweltering. Plus wasps and other flying insects had been making themselves at home so I closed the windows for much of the time. But I looked for a top I could wear if I was going to be in contact with mum. I selected a linen one with short sleeves I rarely wore. It was white but wouldn't matter if I got some of the hair dye on it.

Pulling the top on I looked at myself in the mirror. Why did this feel more like preparing for a date than helping one's mother with a task? My hands were shaking and I felt like I was staring. I turned go to mum's room. And there she was, chemise lifted, scratching her exposed petite derriere. Well, for a moment anyway, then the Athena poster showed the real model. "Damn Simon Johnson," I thought, even though it was my mirage.

Moving quietly I was glad to see that Janis's door was still closed. I looked into mum's room but couldn't see her. Like my mum's work-room and the living room the walls were wood panelled, floor to ceiling. That's the way dad had restored things and mum wasn't for changing them. The furniture was cottage period-piece, rather than modern. The big king-sized divan bed Janis and I used to love cavorting on with our parents was against the far wall, facing the door, covered by a light summer bedspread and matching pillows and cushions. Bedside cabinets held lamps that looked like old oil lamps. The one on dad's side of the bed had a framed photo of him, which mum had put there after he died. An oak bed box was at the foot of the bed, a favourite hiding place for hide and seek.

Two double wardrobes were on the wall to the right, one of them with its doors wide open. A matching chest of drawers held another lamp, family photos and the one item that stood out as truly modern; mum's Philips radio cassette player. Two sets of casements windows, one with a cushioned window seat and pouf, the other accommodating mum's dressing table, let the plenty of light in.

Discarded pieces of clothing were on the floor and widow seat. Janis and I had obviously taken after dad. Mum was happy to step out of her clothes and pick them up only when she (or Janis) was doing a wash or to send them to the dry cleaner's.

"Mum?" I queried, half hoping she wasn't here and had changed her mind.

"In here, sweetie!" her voice sang from beyond the wardrobe. She was already in her en-suite bathroom, between this room and mine. I closed the bedroom door, wincing as the hinges squeaked, just in case Janis heard us. It was going to be a treat to see her reaction at mum's new appearance and I didn't want her wandering in until it was complete. Picking discarded clothes up I placed them on the bed box, closed the wardrobe doors and turned to the bathroom doorway.

There was mum, bent over, her elbows on the bathroom shelf, her chin resting on the palms of her hands. I caught my breath and felt my heart beat hard and fast in my chest as my eyes settled on her posterior. Thankful and disappointed at the same time I saw that she was wearing a pair of French knickers to match her camisole. The shiny black silk clung to the contours of her bottom, the decorative lace finish partially covering and hinting at the alabaster flesh of her cheeks. In contrast, the cheeks of my face must have been red!

She looked up and my eyes met hers, reflected in the large wall mirror in front of her. She was wearing her reading glasses and frowned at me over the brown octagonal frames. I could see a leaflet on the work surface she had obviously been studying, together with a small bowl and the Clairol box. Her hair was tied in three section; left, right and central, which looked very strange.

"Why, oh why do these people make it so difficult to read the instructions? Such small writing. Come and have a look," she said.

I walked the few paces to stand just to the right of her and she slid the leaflet towards me, her chin still resting on her right hand. The reflection in the mirror now showed most of her breasts and my cock jerked in my shorts. I quickly looked away and concentrated on the leaflet. Mum had summarised the instructions. I noted the warnings about rinsing with plenty of cold water if it got in the eyes, not touching 'sensitive areas' and 'seeking medical aid' if swallowed. I looked at the bowl of liquid.

"Jesus, it stinks, doesn't it?"

"The chemicals for the dye," she replied. "It's cool. I've checked and they're safe. Though you'll need to wear gloves to stop it getting ingrained in your hands. There's some in the box. You massage it into my hair, I wait half an hour, you give my hair a good wash and I'm a new woman."

"Yeah, read all that. And the warning bits. I don't want to make a mess of this. Are you sure you don't want to wait and let a professional do it?"

"I'm sure," she said and, placing her right hand gently on the back of my left added: "And there's on more thing." The touch was like an electric shock going through me and I felt like I'd jumped a mile, though I'd hardly moved.

"One .. one more thing?" I stammered, looking directly at her.

"No biggie," she smiled, looking up at me. "You can handle it." As she said that she'd shifted slightly and there it was; her left breast and nipple on display as the material of the chemise fell forward. This was the first woman's nipple I had seen and now it was the first woman's nipple I remembered seeing live! I'd seen pictures in page 3 of The Sun, even colour ones in the Daily Star. And one of the lads had brought his dad's Mayfair magazine to school once so I'd even seen the holy of holies, no pun intended, the lady garden. But this was different, a proper breast, moving, near to me. And what a nipple! Even under the silk I could see that it was long, nearly an inch and dark brown. 'Chapel hat pegs', my uncle Michael would have described them as. "I'm sure you can."

"Handle it?" I asked in a panic, averting my gaze.

"It's too long at the moment."

"Too long?"

"My hair," she said standing up. "It needs cutting back for the style I want. All you need do is cut it above these bands." She indicated the three bands in her hair. "Use these scissors."

" Yeah, right! Dream on man! " I protested. "You really do need a professional to be doing this."

"Chill, man. I'd do it myself but you'll be able to see what you're doing better than me." With that she handed me the scissors. "Careful now, darling. They're v v sharp. Start with the top section"

Reluctantly I took the scissors. "Do you want to sit down somewhere?"

"No, do it here, over the sink. Don't want any hair on the floor." With that she shuffled in front of me to reach the sink, her bum cheeks brushing against my groin. The nerves in my cock were obviously on full alert as it throbbed at the contact. I could feel it swelling and spun round, looking down to see if it was visible in my shorts. It was. And to make matters worse it was still throbbing and growing, the blood of an excited schoolboy being pumped into a virgin member. I couldn't let mum see this!

"I'll get a waste paper basket. For the hair. There's one in my room," I said.

"Use the one next to my dressing table," she replied.

In a turmoil I hesitated in her bedroom. As I saw from the reflection in mum's dressing table mirrors my erection was now clearly visible, the length of it stretching the shiny white shorts material. And it was still pulsating. If I went to my room that would give it time to subside. But what if I bumped into Janis? Even if I somehow managed to cover the offending article she'd want to know what I was doing coming out of mum's room with a pair of tailor's scissors or, worse still, walking along the landing with a pair of tailor's scissors and a waste paper basket. Deciding it was better to stay and use mum's basket I came up with the brilliant idea of slapping my penis to make it deflate. And discovered that it has the opposite effect!

"What's taking you, James?" mum called. "Shall I help you?"

"No! No need, I'm coming now," I replied, thinking I nearly was. I shuffled my penis in my shorts so that it was pointing straight up, the head poking over the top of the waistband. Slightly less visible under my loose shirt. I picked up the basket and, holding it to cover myself, walked back to mum.

"You look all flushed," she said, touching one hand to my cheek.

"The house is hot, it's the weather. I'm OK. Go and stand by the sink, then." She did so, facing me. "Umm, wouldn't it be better if you turn around? You can see what I'm doing in the mirror then."

She did do, placing her hands on the work surface and bending slightly over the sink. Is that better?" she asked.

My member twitched against the basket in response.

"I ... I think it'd be better if you just stand up straight."

"If I do that, any spare hairs will go on the floor," she retorted. "Just get on with it, dude."

Stepping to her right I placed the basket down and moved my body right up against the cupboard, so my lower half couldn't be seen in the mirror. I took the bunch of hair at the top of her head in my hand and pulled it taut.

"Wait," mum warned. "Don't pull it too tight or some of it will come away when you're cutting and it'll be uneven. I'll hold the band to keep it in place and you can hold the excess without pulling."

She lifted her left arm and her boob moved with it. My member trembled against the hard surface of the cupboard and I felt the cooling wetness of pre-cum oozing into my belly button. Jesus, I needed to come so bad. Trying to control myself I raised the scissors.

"Wouldn't it be easier if you turned towards me," she queried.

Ignoring her I cut the first section, the sharp scissors making it easier work than I thought. Mum looked in the mirror, smiling and tapping at the even mound of hair under her hand. I threw the 8 inches of excess blonde in the bin.

"There! Told you. That was easy, wasn't it? Next!" she declared.

I had to turn towards her now to hold the right hand bunch. Holding my groin away from her I repeated the process without incident, as they say. I turned to get rid of the excess and she pivoted with her left side to me. Trying to ignore her bust just inches from me I cut the last section and turned away fast.

Mum bent over the sink and pulled off the bands, ruffling her fingers through her hair and shaking her head, laughing. As she did so he breasts wobbled madly and her hips jiggled slightly. I wanted to reach out and grab them, pull her knickers down and fuck her from behind until I shot my load in her. Instead I put the scissors down and laughed with her as she continued to pull the remaining 6 inches of hair into an ungainly mess on her head.

"Gloves on!" she sang. "Time for mama to become bad mama," she continued in a throaty voice. "But remember to be careful." Spoken in mum's normal voice. "I'll sit on the stool for this."

Thankfully she turned away then sat on the stool, pulling it under the work surface. I took the rubber gloves out of the box. "Blow them up first," she advised. "It'll make them easier to put on."

I did that and grimaced at the bitter taste on my lips, wondering if this was what a johnny tasted like. They were awkward to get on, which helped, as it decreased the blood flow to my unruly cock.

"You can use your fingers or that brush. Just make sure your cover the hair from root to tip."

I elected to use the brush to start with and started at the back of mum's head. I was able to keep some distance between our bodies and tentatively began applying the viscous solution, the texture of which reminded me of my spunk. Taking care not to use too much I was soon confident enough to brush some on then use the fingers of my other hand to massage the mixture along the length of the hair. Despite the smell it felt quite sensual and relaxing to be stroking mum's hair and it didn't help that she sat there with her eyes closed making appreciative little noises. Within 10 minutes the job was done and mum's hair was pulled back, flat against her head.

"All done," I declared, taking off the gloves and putting them in the bin. "Leave it for half an hour then shampoo and rinse."

"Thank you, darling. I'm sure you'll be as good at washing as you are at cutting and colouring. In the meantime do you want to sit here and chat with me or have you homework to be getting on with?"

I had thought mum would wash her hair herself but realised there it was pointless arguing. "I'll just wash my hands then do some homework. Then I'll come back through," I replied, washing off the smell of the gloves in the sink. "And remember, no touching your hair until I come back. and don't let your hair touch any material. And if your scalp starts feeling itchy, even a little bit, straight into the shower and wash it out. Then call me."

"It'll be fine," she assured me. "I'm so looking forward to my new look." With that she stood up and planted a kiss full on my lips. It was a plain, non-sexual mother-friendly kiss but to me the taste of lipstick, the hint of wine and the sweet smell of her breath made it much, much more. Before my weeping member jumped back into action I smiled, dried my hands on a towel and exited the bathroom, leaving mum looking at herself in the mirror.

As I was reaching for the handle of mum's bedroom door I hesitated. On the floor near to mum's dressing table were a discarded slip, tights and pair of red panties. Looking around to make sure mum was still in the bathroom I stooped down and snatched up the panties, tucking them into my shorts. Breathing hard, I opened and closed the door. Janis's door was closed so I made my way along the landing to my room.

As I reached it the bathroom door opened and Janis emerged, a bath sheet wrapped around her body and a towel in her hair.

"Is it asking too much for you to clean the shower when you've used it?" she asked in her best sarcastic voice, before marching off to her room.

Glad she didn't want to engage in an argument I said nothing and hurriedly closed my bedroom door behind me. Throwing myself on my bed I pulled the stolen knickers from my shorts and held them at arms length to look at, my hands trembling. They seemed so small compared to my Y-fronts, hardly deep enough to cover half her hips. I'd never even thought of my mum before this afternoon, never mind her dirty panties, as a source of sexual satisfaction. Yet here I was with a rock-hard cock looking in awe at the material that had touched her sex.

I imagined the heat of her body and the hairs of her pussy filling the gusset. Panting, I turned them inside out to examine it, not quite knowing what to expect. I was taken aback to find off-white smears sticking bits of the gusset together, a couple of mum's pubic hairs trapped there. Simon Johnson hadn't mentioned anything about smears when he talked about sniffing his older sister's knickers. Then again, she had just turned 16. Maybe it was because mum's older, I though at the time. Cautiously I brought the gusset to my nose and sniffed. The initial scent was an acrid tang and then the musky smell I had detected earlier in mum's workroom. The musk in the panties was not as strong and I knew now I had smelled the essence of mum's pussy.

I'd only ever touched one other pussy. I'd gone out with Sonia Dodds, a girl in my class, for a while the year before and she'd let me feel her breasts. I hadn't seen them; she wouldn't let me. But she did allow me to grope them under her bra and top. Her nipples had been hard, although not as bit as mums. And her breasts were just developing. She'd let me finger her fanny under her skirt. I'd pushed her knickers to one side and rubbed her pussy lips. She didn't have hairs on her lips yet, like mum, but I could feel downy hair growing above her slit. I'd loved the heat of her sex on my fingers as we French kissed and hearing her gasp as I pushed a finger into the tight dampness of her virgin pussy. The 'gloop, gloop' sound from her insides remains a key trigger when I think about sexual contact. As was the smell and taste of her pussy juices. I'd smelled at and licked my fingers when we were finished. Different to mum's; a headier odour, tangy like yogurt, so I'd made no connection. Sonia's juices had tasted sweet, not like sugar, but so pleasant. I had no idea at the time, of course, that it was the release of these juices, and a little pee, and sweat that formed the gooey and dried staining I was looking at in mum's gusset.

The smell of mum's cunt and the memory of playing with Sonia's was all too much. I pulled my shorts down to my knees and took hold of my cock. As I squeezed it and stroked upward more pre-cum streamed out of the Jap's eye, as we lads called our urethral orifice, the pee-hole. I sniffed deeply at the gusset, the panties now covering my face and wanked furiously at my cock. Eyes closed, a cornucopia of images filled my mind; mum's pussy as she bent over, me fingering and kissing Sonia who metamorphoses into mum, mum wanking my cock, fucking Sonia, fucking mum. As I continued to inhale the smell of mum's love tunnel I felt my own love juices straining for release. Pumping my shaft even harder I pulled my top up to my neck just as my legs stiffened, my toes straightened, my eyes watered and I felt spurts of hot cum land on my chest and stomach. My hips bucked off the bed with each spasm until I was spent.

As I lay recovering I reached up to remove mum's panties from my face and felt a sticky stream of jizz covering them. I had meant to return them but couldn't now, not in that state. I'd have to sneak them into a wash when I could. My immediate problem was the strands of spunk on my body. Shuffling to the edge of my bed I reached into the drawer of my bedside cabinet for a packet of Handy Andy tissues I kept for such eventualities. This was a 3 tissue wank. And an extra for the panties. I opened the tissues and spread them on the cooling mess, dabbed mum's panties and folded them neatly. Putting them in the drawer I wiped myself down and swung my legs off the bed. Time to flush the evidence down the loo.

Having done that I grabbed my maths book, calculator, slide rule and jotter. 15 minutes should be enough time for the homework. Some algebra (linear equations) and geometry (calculations of various shapes). Maths came naturally to me and I enjoyed it (still do) so I was soon lost in numbers, my sexual urges satiated and pushed to the back of my mind.

Maths homework complete (history could be done later) I looked at my clock and realised I should have been in mum's room 5 minutes ago. Concerned the dye might damage her scalp I rushed to her room. As I opened her door I could hear the Clash's version of Police & Thieves. Mum's favourite mix tape was being played. She was sat cross-legged on the window seat, still dressed in her chemise and matching knickers, nonchalantly reading a magazine (with her jet-black hair still slicked back she looked like one of the backing group in Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love song video, which I was to tell her when it was released some years later). She looked up and smiled at me.

"Has it been half an hour already?" she asked.

"Just over," I replied, closing the door so the music did not bring Janis complaining. "Let's get it rinsed. Does it feel OK? We shouldn't leave it too long."

"Everything's fine, chick. Did you finish your homework?"

"Most of it," I lied. "I'll finish the rest when I've sorted you out."

Standing, mum dropped the magazine on the window seat and on the way to her bathroom picked up her radio cassette player. My Girl by the Mamas and Papas was playing as she skipped into the bathroom. She was running water into the sink as I entered, testing its temperature with her hand. Satisfied. she plugged the sink and allowed it to fill.

"What a shame we don't have one of those sinks the hairdressers use," she declared. "You know, with a dimple in it. You lie back in a reclining chair with your neck in the dimple. So the water's not running over your eyes or face. Hmmm, be such fun to have one of those here."

Oh, dear. The image of mum lying back in a reclining chair brought the pocket python out of its slumber. I thought spending my seed would have calmed things down. Wrong. At that age I could get an erection at the drop of a hat and masturbated 3 or 4 times a day.

"For now I'll just have to bend over for you," she said. "I'm ready if you are. The shampoo's here."

Once again the growing bulge in my shorts was in danger of revealing that my intentions towards my mother were anything but honourable. Her boobs hanging and her little ass stuck out looked so enticing. Luckily she hadn't noticed my shorts. I picked up the shampoo and squirted a dollop in my hand then began rubbing it into her scalp, standing just to her side gain and trying to avoid contact with her body.

"Make sure you rub it hard, sweetie. Just don't get it in my eyes. It stings."

Although I was massaging an area not generally considered erogenous, just touching mum was sensual, especially looking at the soft bare skin of her neck and back, the hint of the side of her tit nearest me as the chemise fell forward. That was quite clear from the aching, pulsing throb that was swelling my cock.

"Hmmmm, you've such a lovely touch, love," she purred. "That feels so good. You look like you're enjoying yourself."

I thought the same as my fingertips rubbed the viscous liquid into mum's shin and along the length of her hair. Hand over hand bunches of slippy hair glided through my palms and fingers. Each stroke felt like I was wanking my cock again, something I desperately wanted to do.

"Time for a rinse and round two, I think," she said. "Ooooh, I love this," she continued, as Be My Baby by the Ronettes began to play.

"Make sure your eyes are closed tight now," I advised. She nodded and leant further into the sink. As I used a face flannel to wipe her hair mum began to sway her hips in time to the music. Needing to pull the sink stopper out and run fresh water I leaned in closed. As I did, mum's hip swayed and pounded right against my cock twice before I could move out of the way. I dropped the flannel on her head and jumped back.

"You OK?" she asked, looking in the mirror. "What's the matter?"

"Uh, nothing. I got a touch of cramp, that's all. Just needed to stand up straight. Better now."

"Oooh, cramp," she tittered. "Stiff and painful. Hate that. Do you need me to rub it better, sweetie?"

Much as I would have loved to pull my throbbing knob out and have her do just that I assured mum I was okay to carry on. I gave her another rinse and, avoiding her still-undulating hips, applied more shampoo then rinsed for a second time. I had to stand side-on next to her this time or she's have definitely felt just what she was bumping into. She seemed to enjoy jostling my hips as she sang along to Baby Love by the Supremes.

The water was now running clear and I asked mum to check she was happy. Standing up, she looked in the mirror and raised both hands, running her fingers through her hair. Excess water ran down her body, the wet silk of the chemise now clinging to and showing the outline of her breasts, the erect nipples and areolae clearly visible. Pulling strands up she excitedly bounced on the balls of her feet again, her breasts leaping madly.

"I love it! Love it! Love it! That is so right-on! Grooo-vee!" she declared, turning and wrapping her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. I felt the cool damp of mum's slip permeate through the thin material of my top, quickly replaced by the heat of both of our bodies. Her stiff nipples and soft breasts rubbed and jostled against my ribs, her belly against my erection.

"Pass me a towel, love," she said, seemingly unaware of my cock. "I simply must dry and style my new hair - look at it! - then sort dinner out before Her Royal Highness starts complaining. Speaking of, you've got some of my shampoo in your hair. Here, let me," she said, reaching up and producing a dollop of sticky liquid. "Yuck, messy," she exclaimed. "You run along and finish your homework. I'll let you know when it's time to eat. And thanks again, chick. I owe you one."

I swept my hand through my hair and realised, to my horror, that it was my jizz mum had pulled out. Thank goodness the shampoo was the same consistency and colour. Turning away I handed her a towel and headed for my bedroom, rubbing my head to ensure no more offending liquid was evident. Thankfully there wasn't. There was only one way to deal with my erection! The Franco-Prussian war. I knew if I didn't do the history homework before dinner, no matter how much I just wanted to feel that glorious burst of spunk, I'd never do it tonight. A new series of John le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was starting at 9 on BBC2 and didn't finish until near 11. So no chance of doing homework later on. 30 minutes later I had covered French worries about Prussia overtaking France as the main European power, Bismark's Alliance of Prussian/German states, superior German tactics, leadership and training, siege of Paris, French defeat.

I put my books away and packed the one I would need for tomorrow. it was quarter to six and I reckoned mum wouldn't shout me for dinner until the usual time of half six, leaving me time to spare. There was nothing on TV but news. Time to relax in a gentlemanly fashion. The drawer to my bedside cabinet was still open. The sight of mum's scarlet panties immediately got my cock twitching. I picked them up, holding them to my nose, and pulled down my shorts, my cock already hard, the veins standing out along the shaft, the purple head swollen and throbbing, pre-cum gleaming from the eye.

Lying on my bed I placed the gusset over the head of my cock and pulled hard, imagining pushing it into mum's fanny. Mum's fanny! I couldn't believe I was thinking of her in those terms but here I was with her panties, already stained with my cum, rubbing over my glans. I closed my eyes and her panties transformed into mum's hairy pussy sliding over my cock, her hard nipples rubbing on my chest as she whispered: " Do you need me to rub it better, sweetie?" I stroked faster as I felt the tension rising in my balls, my cock straining to release again.

Taking the panties off my cock I pulled my shirt clear of the expected flow. As the first stream of my cum spurted I heard a noise and looked towards my door. "Ta daaa!" announced the smiling figure theatrically in the doorway, one arm raised and the other on her hip in the classical circus pose, the voice immediately changing to a shocked "OH!" as my second spurt hit my chest.

Mum now looked completely different, her hair spiked, heavy black eyeliner and eyeshadow mixed with a white highlight, eyebrows blackened and long, false eyelashes, her cheekbones highlighted in rouge, gleaming scarlet lip-gloss making her lips look wet. Heavy black Roman-style ear-rings dangled and a spiked dog-collar was on her neck. She wore a black net top, clearly showing the flesh underneath, her breasts partially concealed by a black bra. On her waist was a studded belt to match the dog-collar and wrist bands. A black denim mini-skirt fish-net stockings and Doc Martens completed the ensemble.

Mum's eyes were wide and her mouth and her mouth still open in an O as my third spurt shot out. My eyes met hers momentarily as I scrambled to conceal myself, turning my back to her. At the same time mum reached for the door handle and I heard the door close. Looking around I saw the she had left. My face must have been redder than her lip-gloss and I was shaking with embarrassment, my cock now deflating rapidly. What now? My mum had caught me wanking. Not just wanking but shooting my load. How could I even look at her again?

The first thing to do was clean up my spend. Mum's panties were still in my hand. Oh, god! Had she seen those? There was no time to look for tissues. I used the panties to wipe most of my spunk, folded them so the driest area was to the outside and put them at the back of my bedside table drawer, closing it this time. Shaking, I wiped the excess on my shirt and took it off. Pulling my shorts up I went to get a replacement top.

The gentle tapping at my door made me jump. Had I really heard something? Hard to say as the blood was pumping in my ears, my heart thudding loudly. Again, a tapping at the door. I said nothing and froze. How could I? I was in a huge hole and couldn't face another human being. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide in a dark corner. I quickly pulled on my t-shirt.

"It's me," mum's voice said quietly. "Can I come in?" I didn't answer, wishing she would just go away.

Instead the handle turned and the door opened a crack. "Are you decent?" mum asked. "I think we need to have a talk."

"Ca ... can't we talk later?" I croaked.

"Best to sort it out now, babes. Can I come in? I don't really want Janis to hear me out here. Do you?"

"OK." I blurted and sat down at my desk, my head hanging low.

I heard mum entering and closing the door behind her. I didn't dare face her.

"I'm sorry about just now," she said. "I should have knocked first. I was just so excited about my new look and wanted you to be the first to see. I sometimes forget you're not a little boy anymore and we're always in and out of each other's rooms. And you needn't be embarrassed about what you were doing. It's completely natural. You're not the only person in the world who does it. I masturbate, too."

I was shocked to hear mum say that. To my mind she was a chaste widow and didn't do such things. She hadn't been with anyone else since dad died, as far as I knew. No boyfriends called at the house and I didn't think adults masturbated. In my immature mind teenagers masturbated until they got married. Then they had sex and that was that. They didn't need to masturbate anymore.

"Can you forgive me?" she asked. "Are we still buddies?" I felt her fingers touch my shoulder and I jumped. I nodded, without speaking.

"Oh, goody!" she trilled, then added seriously: "Is there anything you want to ask me about sex? I know you have lessons at school but if they're anything like I received they're next to useless. They don't tell you how to make sex fun or what women or men like best to do. And the talk we had two years ago was a bit rudimentary. It's obvious you've moved on since then. You know you can ask me anything. I even had the talk with HRH last month. Would you believe there wasn't much I could tell her. Far out! Still, girls mature faster than boys. And they tell each other everything, despite what they say. I know that from experience. She's started her periods. Same age I did but I though she's be later being a skinny, athletic type. Still, forget Janis. Anything you want to ask? I'm here for you"

There was so much I wanted to ask but right then I could hardly string two words together. "Not just now, mum", was the best I could do.

"Alright, I understand," she replied, massaging my shoulders. "Can you bear to have a look at my new image? I still want to know what you think."

Turning slowly, my head still low, I took in the fishnet stockings and the pale flesh just below the mini-skirt as she stepped back a few paces. Her hands were by her sides, the fingernails now varnished black, various large rings with red or black stones on her fingers. I scanned upwards, trying not to let my eyes settle too long on the bra and certainly not wanting to meet her eyes.

"It ... it's different," I mumbled, looking down again. "Nice."

"Nice?" she replied, disappointed. "Oh, darling. 'Nice' is how people describe something boring. Do I look boring?"

"No. No, I meant you look good, mum."

Taking my face between her hands she tilted my head up, hers now just inches from mine: "Do you think I look sexy, like Siouxsie, though?" There was that look again. Her eyes narrowed and powerful. Not mum anymore. Like a trapped rabbit I stared back, feeling my face growing red again.

"Jesus, mum. You're my mum."

"Yes, I know," she said, unrelenting. "But if I wasn't. Would I look sexy?"

"Yes."

"Well, say it then," she insisted. "Say I look sexy."

"You look sexy." I spoke the words as neutrally as I could, trying to hide my true feelings.

"Well, thank you, darling. See. That wasn't so hard, was it?" she smirked. "Ooops, didn't mean to use that word. Anyway, I must go and get dinner out. Come help me when you've cleaned up. Don't be long. You don't want to miss seeing Janis when she sees the new me."

As she opened the door she turned: "Oh, make sure you're using protection with any girlfriends. From what I saw you'll need to. And you're well-equipped enough to attract attention. Remember what I said; girls talk! Don't be long." And with that she went along the hall, leaving the door open.
I was stunned. Mum looked totally hot, but I couldn't tell her that. I was confused. What did she mean 'girls talk'? I knew what she meant per se. But did she mean girls had been talking about me? And if so, how did she know and what were they saying? Had Sonia said something? Or Penny Weatherill. Both of them had seen my cock and wanked me off until I'd come. Saskia Winters had felt it when we were in the dinner queue. I was stood behind her and she'd reached back and stroked my cock, using her lunch tray to cover what she was doing. Totally out of the blue. I wasn't even in the same year as her. She stroked and squeezed it then moved on, as if nothing had happened. She didn't even look at me and never mentioned it since. She was on the gymnastics team with Janis! What did Janis know and had she said anything to mum?

And what did she mean 'well-equipped'? It sounded like a compliment. Was mum complimenting my cock? Jesus! I mean, I knew I had a good-sized cock compared to the other boys in my year, apart from Chris Armitage, with his ten-incher. Everyone in the school knew about his cock. Was mum saying my cock was a good size or shape compared to other boys or adults or did she mean me coming? Or both? I pondered all this whilst I washed my body and cock in the bathroom with a face flannel. I didn't rinse it out but folded it neatly on the sink. Hah! Janis would use it next to wash her face after dinner.

In the kitchen mum was finishing laying the table. Lettuce, tomatoes, grated carrots and cabbage, sweetcorn, boiled eggs, sliced ham, tuna, cold rice and French sticks were in serving dishes.

"There's some mayonnaise I've made over there, darling. Would you mind just beating it a smidgen stiffer for me? Try not to get it everywhere, though," she added, a wicked grin on her face.

I couldn't believe this. Mum was taking the mickey. The simile with my masturbation and ejaculation could not have been plainer! I reasoned she was making light of the matter to relax me so I set about mixing it.

"Ooooh, good technique," she called lightly as she walked to the stairs, where she shouted for Janis. Coming back to the kitchen she moved to a spot so Janis would not notice her until she was in the room.

When Janis did enter she saw me first, beating the mayo. Then she noticed mum.

"Who are y... MOTH-ER!?" she bellowed, her voice raising several octaves to a piercing screech. "What on earth has possessed you? Are you going to a fancy dress ball? A bad taste one?"

"No, dearest. It's my new look. It's your parent's evening next week, isn't it?" she smiled. I recognised the wicked look she had used on me earlier and stifled a laugh.

"You wouldn't!" she shrieked. "You look like a ... a ... a ... a common prostitute!"

"Well really, Janis," mum laughed. "You can't possibly mean that. James. How would you describe my look? In one word? Janis thinks prostitute. Anything come to mind? Beginning with 'S', for example?" There she was again, trying to embarrass not only Janis, but me too. This new persona of hers was distinctly naughty.

"Siouxsie," I offered. "As in Siouxsie Sioux. Is that what you were thinking or did you have another word in mind?" I countered. Touché!

"Oh, darling. Never mind my mind. Much more important for you to share yours with your sis and I. See Janis," she continued, "your brother gets me. And look how helpful he's being to mummy. His mayonnaise is so thick and creamy. Bet it's tasty."

"Bet it's salty, if it's his," Janis retorted with a sneer. "And don't change the subject, mother. You can't possibly attend my parent's evening looking like that. You just can't. I'll die of shame. I'm a prefect, for goodness sake! I'll tell gran!"

"Don't be a spaz, dear. It's 1979, not 1879," said mum, waving Janis's comment away with the back of her hand.

"And, missy," I interjected. "If the mayo is salty you can blame mum, not me. She mixed the ingredients. I just beat it for her."

"It's about time you did things for mum, too," she lectured. "You're supposed to be the man of the house now. You should give her a hand when she needs it instead of just lazing in your room or disappearing out with your chums."

Mum smiled and seized on the suggestion: "What a lovely suggestion, Janis. It would be a great help if you were to see to my pussies, James. They need regular attention. Speaking of, they need feeding now."

Both cats were sitting expectantly near to their empty bowls. Rolling my eyes at mother, who was thoroughly enjoying herself, I put the mayonnaise on the table and fed the cats.

"See how they purr contentedly when they're happy," mum observed, looking at me. "If they weren't eating they'd be dribbling. All pussies are the same."

"If you stroke pussies nicely, James, they'll purr and dribble," added Janis, looking at me, then mum. "Won't they, mother?"

"There speaks the voice of experience, James. Your sister knows her pussies. Right, dinner time for us."