by Paul Beckman
“Aren’t you a little old for my daughter?” My date’s mother asked while sipping her Mojito.
“She’s mature for her age,” I said.
“You appear to be also,” she said. “How about a drink?”
“I don’t drink and drive,” I told her.
Ignoring me, she walked to the bar and I watched through the bar mirror as she undid two more buttons on her already partially opened blouse. The daughter was raven haired like her mother—although smaller and more compact. Mom’s ass jiggled a little. I like jiggle. Both had high uplifted breasts with prominent nipples. Moms were larger. I like larger.
Mom mixed two Mojitos making a show of crushing the mint. I didn’t ask again about my date but waited impatiently and slowly became more patient.
“Put some music on,” Mom said. “Something that goes well with a Cuban drink.”
“Pandora was on the TV screen and I punched in Sam Cooke.”
He came on as Mom turned and handed me a drink. “My daughter left earlier with her friends. She asked me to entertain you until she got back.”
“And when will that be?” I asked.
“Long after the entertainment,” Mom said and began to slow dance around me to ‘Sentimental Reasons’. She came up behind me and raked her nails down my back. The pressure was just right. I turned to kiss her and at the last moment she turned her head and bit my earlobe.
The Mojito was good, Mom was better than her daughter—much better and in the morning my date walked into her mother’s room and said, “Happy Birthday, Mom.” She was carrying a Happy Birthday helium balloon bouquet and let it float up to the ceiling.
Mom stretched and smiled and got out of bed heading for the bathroom. I heard the tub running as my date dropped her clothes and crawled in next to me. Mom stayed bathing for just the right amount of time and I wondered how they knew it was also my birthday.
published 25 June 2016