417 FINDING MY MUM
Now I need to tell you my name is Wooster, not Berty from the book, but Tim, Tim Wooster, my body is large, and my friends call me “big Woose” for some reason and Freddy my mate refers to me a Forrest Gump though I don’t understand that either.
My mother when I was born 18 years back, had to have me adopted as she, being so young could not cope with a c***d at that time, so I have been searching for her for some time. Anyway, I had one of those “genes recalled” efforts for Christmas and bingo it gave mothers name and grandfathers as well.
So being a nosey git off I went to the village grandfather was listed as coming from, checked the parish records, and well, pay-dirt! Not only did they record the birth of the old boy, the sextant knew him and where he lived, in a nursing home.
After a while getting to know me etc, from him, now in his 80th year, I got mothers address and was soon at her door.
Number one surprise it was a flat, over a row of shops, in an area called locally for some unknown reason; ‘Soho’!
Number two surprise was that on the door was a card saying French lessons all sizes catered for! Now I had no idea that my mother was so educated as to teach a language…either way I knocked, and a maid answered the door.
A nice touch that, having a maid meant there was money!
The maid showed me into a small waiting room and said that madam was with a client she would not be long. I was expecting the girl to have asked my business when I arrived but no, so I supposed she had just accepted that I was here for lessons.
Having no wish to interrupt someone`s lesson I sat reading a magazine, something called Mayfair, left on the small table, expecting it to be after the style of vogue or country life, like at the doctors place, I was shocked at the undressed ladies displaying their bodies so I put it back on the table, sitting silently waiting for the maids return.
Some time passed and the maid returned saying madam would see me now
The flat had an air of once having been an up market place, tasteful pictures of half d****d ladies from Greece or Rome adorned the walls, heavy curtains the windows, and the furnishings were old French style like I had seen in country life at our doctors waiting room. I was shown into one of the rooms that looked as though it had been two rooms at one time with the centre wall knocked away leaving a dividing arch and curtains held back by gold coloured rope in great red swags.
One end had a huge double bed the other large wardrobes and a dressing table at which was sat a flimsy well-worn dressing gown and a night dress, containing a big breasted sizeable woman. The walls had a tasteful display of old leather whips, things like that and chains hung about, not what I would have chosen preferring pictures or paintings of family members, but to everyone has their own taste.
Stumbling for words I asked if she was Shirley, to which she answered with a snap in her voice that “she was and who told you!” By now I was a little shocked that my mother would teach French in her night clothes and that after all these years that I was face to face with this long-lost lady, so my voice wavered as I answered “father” meaning her father of course.
She brightened and asked, “was I a virgin then?”
Taken a bit aback I proudly told her with a blush that “I was!” Though I could see no real connection; with my estranged lifestyle, my adoption, my father or even the French language.
“Who is your father then?” she said. Now that was something that I had been itching to ask her, so I said well of anyone she should know. I still am not sure if she really understood, but she brightened up a little said “oh him I `spose you are here for lessons” then without more ado she took my hand led me to the bed and started to strip off her dressing gown.
Now I had not known the lady for long, and it all seemed a bit forward to me, so I began to protest but she put her finger to my lip and told me to hush and to get my clothes off. Again I began to protest but she took it as a sign of shyness and kissed me deep and loving, I took it as a kiss as only a mother could; I had been kissed before but only by foster parents and carers, no doubt to quieten me and never as passionately as this. She took my hand and placed it on her breast still clad in its covering of nightgown, I thought as a symbol of her wish to be close to me, so I as a dutiful son returned the kiss thinking things were going well and she would soon be able to talk properly again as soon as this first rush of emotion wore off as it was rendering her speechless.
She pointed at me and said the single word “clothes!”. “Oh”, I thought she`s so choked up emotionally, she wants to see what a fine figure of a lad I had grown into. So, just to please her I removed everything even my shoes and socks then stood so proudly so she could see my now naked body. Strangely she was not overly impressed telling me “she was all mine and to carefully check her out!” while stripping off her night gown and throwing herself on the bed.
I really did not understand, no-one had ever greeted me like this before, I know she was my mother and had had a shock after all these years but, this was a little strange even for a woman in shock. Well not wishing to upset things, I clambered up on that big soft bed and lay beside her, she lay impassive, and not knowing what to do I just did nothing.
Her hand, led mine to her womanly bits, she was not like me and I had seen lady`s before in Freddy the gardeners books hid in his shed in the orphanage garden, so I let my fingers explore. They returned damp and smelling like fish-paste, which seemed a little curious to me, so I sniffed again then tasted the damp pinkies to check that it was not something on my hands as I had not washed for a while. Mother now checked her watch, muttered for me to get on with the job and placed my fishy hand back onto her breast, I could feel a little nub swelling under my palm and thought that she was trying to explain that she had a boil or something on her chest, but she snapped at me that if I didn’t understand I was to ask as we all needed to learn and just to ask. I did ask if she was unwell and had boils, to which she took, well umbrage I suppose, she leapt from the bed as well as she could, grabbed a crop from the wall and caught me a four-penny one across the butt and I was told not to waste her time.
She returned to the bed grabbed at my limp tool ran her hand up and down it then straddles me and fed it into her body a feeling like I have never before enjoyed overcame me some moments of her jumping up and down, no-doubt as I suspect she was not very comfortable, then she gave me another cut of the crop and told me to “show a little interest”, had I known what the local protocol was in saying hello like this, perhaps it would have been easy, but it was a new area for me, we either kissed or shook hands in the rest of the world! Anyway, she climbed off saying I was a waste of time and to “come back in a year or two” throwing me through the door by the scruff of the neck, kicking my clothes after me. Well! I began to dress, under the eye of the maid, who wordlessly put out her hand, I being a gentleman kissed it somewhat startled she shrugged her shoulders and showed me the door perhaps on reflection I should have put my tool in her hand, as a greeting. I may go back to see my mum and try again next year as she`s invited me, but at least I shall know the protocol and Ive got an address for my christmas cards now!

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