Bad Betty

When my wife Karen and I married in the late 1960s we couldn’t afford to buy our own home. I’m Rob by the way. I was 23, Karen was 21, and although we were on the local council’s housing list we knew we might face a long wait for our own place. I was a Londoner but I’d moved to Lancashire to be nearer my beloved Manchester United and my folks lived down south. Karen was a local lass, so we did the only thing we could and moved in with her mum.

I already knew Betty well as all three of us worked at the same car factory. Whereas Karen took after her father with a slight build, mousy dark hair and a shy nature, Betty couldn’t have been more different. She was 45, a couple of inches shorter than me at five-eight, with huge tits, a big arse, a mass of wavy shoulder length hair, coloured copper red from a bottle, and large but shapely legs which she was proud to show off in short skirts that scandalised many a woman the same age as her. Betty had a personality as big as her body: she called everybody ‘love’, at work her raucous laugh and loud voice would ring out across the factory floor, sometimes even above the sound of the machinery, and on a Friday night at the works club she could sink pints of ale with the best of the blokes. She wasn’t beautiful but she certainly had striking looks, with piercing blue eyes, a long sharp nose, a dimpled chin and big naturally pouting lips. She wouldn’t have been seen dead outside the house without her ‘slap’ – eyes daubed in mascara, cheeks awash with blusher and lips fire engine red with lipstick. Her husband had been killed in an industrial accident when Karen was eight, and because of the way she dressed and looked Betty had attracted a reputation as being a bit of a good-time girl with the lads, but I never saw any sign of it. Well, not until the day when…

Betty’s home was a tiny mid-terrace two-bedroom council house and felt tiny with the three of us sharing it. Fortunately she and I got on really well, with a sort of jokey relationship in which we would often tease each other. We also had a similar wicked sense of humour that Karen didn’t really seem to share. In fact she used to get irritated with her mother, and our situation, far more than I ever did. With the place being so small there were times when Betty and I would find ourselves passing through the same doorway at the same time, our bodies rubbing together, but I never really thought about it, just taking it each time as an innocent accident. That’s not to say that feeling her boobs pressing against me didn’t make my cock twitch, but I just quickly turned my mind to something else; after all, she was my wife’s mother, and she’d never given the slightest indication that she saw me as anything but a pal.

Naturally Karen and I often retired to our bedroom for a bit of privacy, and inevitably she was soon pregnant with our son. It was a warm summer that year, and as her condition developed Karen started to become increasingly moody and went right off sex. Naturally I was sympathetic to her and, being a fairly easy-going bloke, I put up with her long silences, her snapping at me and her tearful apologies. I can’t pretend it wasn’t a frustrating time for me though. Betty soon got fed up with her daughter’s irritability, and after a few months the pair of them could barely exchange a civil word, and several times I found myself acting as peacemaker.

One Sunday morning, when Karen’s pregnancy was at about five months, I got up early in the morning to go to the loo. The bolt on the bathroom door had recently broken and didn’t work properly; I slid it across as best I could, but in any case I wasn’t too worried as Betty normally slept late on Sundays and I had no reason to think she’d be up and about for hours. So there I was, sitting on the toilet having a nice relaxed crap, when suddenly the door burst open and in walked my mother-in-law! I’d only been wearing a towelling dressing gown, which I’d dropped to the floor, and blushing furiously I dropped my hands between my legs to hide my wedding tackle. Betty was also wearing a dressing gown, which reached her ankles, but didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed by her intrusion on my privacy. Nor did she show any sign of leaving. With a cheery smile she said, “Don’t mind me, Rob love, I’m going over to see my Auntie Doreen in Blackburn today so I need to get a shower if that’s okay.”

Before I could say it wasn’t really okay, and couldn’t she wait just two minutes, she’d shrugged off the dressing gown, stepped naked into the bath tub with her back to me and turned on the shower fixed to the wall over the bath. I felt very self-conscious wiping my backside with her standing there but she seemed to be entirely ignoring me. Unfortunately, even though I felt as guilty as hell, I wasn’t able to bring myself to ignore Betty. I had a perfect view of her surprisingly slim back, pale with freckles across her shoulders, and her gorgeous bum. Just as I was pulling my own dressing gown back on she turned off the shower and stepped out, half-blocking my route to the door out of the tiny room. Still apparently ignoring me she started to vigorously dry herself, humming a tune under her breath. She lifted one of her feet onto the side of the bath, to dry her leg, and suddenly I had a perfect view of her pussy – not just her forest of ginger-brown pubes but the glistening pink slit between her meaty thighs. She was bending as she dried herself, her big boobs swinging free.

Well, I’m only flesh and blood, and I stood mesmerised by the sight of this glorious looking, voluptuous naked woman before me. I felt rooted to the spot and, even worse, within seconds I had the stiffest hard-on I could remember in months. Betty turned her head and stared right at it. Then, straightening and dropping her towel, in a husky half-whisper she said, “Oh dear, our Karen won’t help you out with that, will she love? Well, I suppose it’s down to me then.” She reached out a hand and stroked the tip of my stiff cock with her fingers, making me gasp and it twitch enthusiastically.

I tried to speak but my voice wouldn’t work, and then it was too late. As I watched her in total astonishment my wife’s mother dropped to a squat, wrapped a hand round my prick and sank her lips down its length. Her mouth sucking on me and her tongue tracing up and down the underside of my cock felt fabulous, and I rested my shoulder-blades against the wall and gazed down dumbly at the copper crown of Betty’s head as it moved back and forth, and at the little nobbles on her bent back marking the course of her spine. Karen had never much liked giving me head, and comparing her technique to her mother’s was like comparing my little motor scooter to riding in a Rolls Royce. She slipped one of her hands between my legs and cradled my balls, dragging the sharp points of her nails up and down my scrotum. Apart from tossing myself off it was the first sexual contact I’d had almost since the day Karen confirmed she was in the club; I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and started panting, trying to make the experience last as long as possible, but all too soon I mumbled “I’m cumming”. Betty never batted an eyelid, just took my full length deep into her mouth and sucked hard as with a huge gasp I shot months of pent-up frustration down her throat.

She continued to suck and lick my cock for thirty seconds or so, gently massaging my balls, then released me and stood. Grinning like a Cheshire cat she kissed me on the lips and whispered “There, that’s better, isn’t it love. You taste lovely. Then she stroked my cheek and wafted out of the bathroom.

In a daze, I followed a minute or so later, dragging my dressing gown along the floor behind me to the room I shared with my wife. Climbing into bed I snuggled up to Karen. She woke, snapped “Christ Robert, you’re cold” and shuffled as far away from me as she could get.

After that the sexual tension between Betty and me was so thick you could have cut it with a knife, although Karen didn’t seem to notice. I worked hard at making sure my mother-in-law and I were never alone together, although whether that was because I didn’t trust her or myself I couldn’t have said. On the following Wednesday though, as I was standing at the kitchen sink washing the dishes after dinner, I heard a floorboard creak behind me and a moment later I jumped as Betty’s arms slid around my waist from behind me, her hands locking on my belt buckle and her breasts squashed against my back. Speaking quietly, she murmured “So Robbie, when are you going to fuck me?”

I tensed and, looking at her reflection in the kitchen window, started to say, “Betty, I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

Before I got any further she interrupted me. “Why not love? You can’t tell me you don’t want to. Her hands slipped down to my groin and I squirmed as her fingertips stroked firmly up my rapidly forming erection through my jeans.

Closing my eyes to try and concentrate my thoughts, I muttered “It’s not right. You’re Karen’s mum.”

She gave a throaty chuckle, and her lips actually brushed my ear as she whispered, “She’s not giving you what you need…what you deserve…and I’ll bet I’m a much better shag than she is. I’m on late shift next week: if you like I can have a word with Margie to make sure she fixes it so you are too. We’d have the house just to ourselves all day, every day.” Alarm bells the size of Big Ben started to ring in my head as I wondered what Margie in Personnel would make of that, but Betty had clearly anticipated that thought. “It’s Karen’s birthday in a couple of weeks. I’ll tell Margie that, being a typical feller, you’ve got no idea what to buy her and you need my advice.”

Her fingers gripped the tag on the zip of my jeans, and I thought she was about to undo me and pull out my painfully stiff dick, but at that moment we heard a rattle as Karen brought some more crockery through for washing. Instantly Betty was two feet away from me. Showing a rare glimpse of good humour Karen said in a teasing voice, “What are you two up to in here?”