Scouse Mate's Mum
"Night out in Liverpool with his mate. Mate passes out at pre-drinks. His mum suggests they go out anyway. She shows him the real Liverpool."
Pre-drinks at Callum's. Standard Saturday.
Except Callum's a lightweight who's been smashing them since four, and by eight he's face-down on the sofa, snoring.
"Fucking hell." His mum, Jackie, stands over him. "What am I supposed to do with you?"
She's dressed for a night out—tight dress, heels, makeup perfect.
"You were going with him?"
"No, la. I'm going with you now."
Jackie's forty-two and doesn't look it.
Scouse through and through—big hair, bigger earrings, eyebrows that could cut glass. Curvy in that bold Liverpool way—tits on display, arse that her dress is struggling with, no apologies for any of it.
She's been a widow three years. Tonight, she wants to dance.
"Coming or what?"
I'm definitely coming.
Concert Square is heaving.
She moves through the crowd like she owns it—because she kind of does. Everyone knows Jackie. Shouts hello, waves, air kisses.
"You're famous," I say.
"Been coming here since before you were born." She pulls me toward a bar. "Now shut up and drink."
We drink. We dance. We drink more.
She's pressed against me on the dance floor, all curves and perfume and heat. Her hands on my chest. My hands on her hips.
"You're Callum's mate," she shouts over the music.
"Yeah."
"So I shouldn't be thinking what I'm thinking."
"What are you thinking?"
She grinds back against me. That's her answer.
By midnight, the pretense is gone.
We're in a dark corner of a club I don't recognize, and she's kissing me like her life depends on it.
"This is mad," she breathes.
"Completely."
"Callum would kill you."
"Callum's unconscious."
She laughs, pulls me closer.
"Fair point."
Her place is ten minutes away.
We're barely through the door before she's pushing me against the wall, hands everywhere.
"Three years," she says between kisses. "Three fucking years since anyone touched me."
"I'm touching you now."
"Not enough." She drags me toward her bedroom. "I need more."
Her body is everything.
Bold curves, soft skin, tits that spill out of her bra like they've been waiting for freedom. She's not shy—strips completely, stands there letting me look.
"Well?"
"Fucking hell, Jackie."
"Good answer." She pulls me onto the bed. "Now show me what you've got."
She's loud. Scouse women don't do quiet.
"Right there—fuck, yeah—harder, la—"
I give her harder. She takes everything, demands more. Her nails rake my back, her thighs grip my waist.
"I'm gonna—oh fuck—fuck—"
She comes screaming, and I swear the neighbors heard.
I don't care. Neither does she.
We go again. And again.
Three years of frustration pouring out. She's insatiable—on top, underneath, bent over, every position she can think of.
"You're gonna kill me," I groan.
"What a way to go though." She grins, rides me harder. "Come on. One more."
By 4 AM, we're wrecked.
Lying in her bed, sweaty and satisfied, the room smelling like sex and her perfume.
"Callum's gonna wake up wondering where you went."
"I'll tell him I pulled."
"You did." She laughs. "Just not who he thinks."
Morning
My phone buzzes. Callum.
Where'd you go last night? Got battered and passed out lol
Met a bird. Stayed at hers.
Legend. Was she fit?
I look at Jackie, freshly showered, wrapped in a silk robe, making coffee like this is normal.
The fittest.
"So." She hands me a mug. "This a one-time thing?"
"Do you want it to be?"
"Not really." She sips her coffee. "Callum's out every Saturday. Just saying."
"Saturday works."
"Good." She leans over, kisses me. "Now piss off before he texts again. And remember—"
"I know. Not a word."
"Exactly." She grins. "Good lad."
Saturdays become ours.
Callum goes out with other mates. I go to Jackie's. Everyone's happy.
"This is so wrong," she says one night.
"The wrongest."
"We should stop."
"Probably."
She climbs on top of me.
"Or we could just... not."
We don't.
Liverpool keeps our secret.