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My Mother Susan
MY MOTHER, SUSAN
by BillyG
I remember the day exquisitely well. The days - no the
months and years before it - are wrapped in some soft-focus,
cotton-candy memory, but that day snaps into sharp focus
with a clarity that is the result of moments of great impact
long remembered. For all those years, my was my Mom.
Then one day she became a woman. More importantly, she
suddenly became a sexy woman. An extremely desirable
woman.
I didn't - that day at any rate - suddenly become a
profligate. It was to take a certain determinism and some
considerable time before I might aspire to that description.
No, the severest criticism one could bring to bear back then
might be that I was a horny kid, one who appeared to be a
touch more aware than his peers and maybe too curious for
his own good.
I was home alone with my and my was away.
That was the case a good bit of the time it seemed. I had a
father, but we didn't know each other very well. On some
level, I'd come to accept his absence, for that's the way it
was. I suspect my mother, who didn't complain, was
experiencing less acceptance.
I'd been coerced into wearing a sport jacket that day -
in place of my usual, more casual attire - and attending
some ho-hum, boring cocktail party at the university
president's home. I don't recall the strong-arm tactics
that brought me to bay, but I do recall the suffering. It
seemed like endless hours of mindless chatter where everyone
but me got to have champagne or white wine. Oh, it wasn't
forbidden, but my had made it clear that she was
going to have "some wine" and I was the designated driver.
We both knew that champagne had more effect on my
than it appeared at first glance. If she didn't try to walk,
or drive, she did quite well, at least at holding a
conversation. However, those who knew her well were aware
of a characteristic scattered thought process, a type of
clang association which, when coupled with an alcoholic
gaiety, turned her into a different woman. Almost daring
and perhaps borderline loose.
Anyway, we'd returned home in the late afternoon from
that well- supplied party and we'd both fallen into facing
couches in our large living room, each of us with a welcome
sigh as we put our feet up. That's when it happened. I
don't recall that anything had occurred to set me up for
this; it just came out of nowhere. Blind sided as it were.
Out of nowhere, this sexy woman appeared!
The late afternoon sun shone toward my while I
sat opposite her in deeper shadow. She'd drawn up her knees
to push her pumps off and suddenly I was looking directly up
her dress at a well-lit and unobstructed view of my mother's
thighs all the way to her undergarments. It was no flash,
for she'd placed both stockinged feet on the coffee table,
knees still up and fallen back to the cushions, head up and
eyes closed with her skirt around her mid thighs in the
front and completely dropped away in the rear.
"Oh, that feels so good." she exclaimed, wriggling her
stocking- clad toes. "Christ, I wish I could meet someone
interesting at those parties, someone with some life in
them!"
It was the type of comment that needed no reply. I
suspect that I couldn't have replied coherently in any case,
for my attention was riveted on the view under her dress.
Even though I'd lived with this woman all my life, I
suppose I had had no interest and no awareness of her as a
*woman* and even less for her clothes. After all, she was
my for crying out loud. So, it was with some
surprise that I realized for the very first time that she
wore and garters and not what I thought all women
wore, pantyhose. I was fascinated with the of her
hose by the garters running down each thigh. But her
held even greater fascination for me.
I don't think that I'd given it any previous thought,
but had I been grilled on what type of underwear my
wore, I might have guessed something white, conservative,
and certainly thick. Clearly not what she had on.
Illuminated by the long rays of the afternoon sun, the pale
yellow of her panties, pooched out by a cushion of
pubic hair faintly seen beneath, were not what I would have
expected. As I say, I hadn't really expected anything, but
what I saw so well that afternoon was to be imprinted on my
mind with an indelible permanence.
"Damn, my feet are tired," she complained to the
heavens. And then, stating the obvious, "Professor Twist is
so incredibly boring," followed by a mental right turn, "I
need some excitement in my life."
Excitement? I glanced up at her face, but she looked
unchanged, head back and eyes still closed, the of
fatigue, or was it boredom? Looking again at her long legs
encased in sheer nylons leading up to that pantied juncture
in her crotch, I suddenly had a near-overwhelming desire to
see more, to get closer. Some desires, short of
compulsions, can be modulated if for no other reason than a
fear of disclosure. The strength of this desire was not to
be moderated by caution or restraint. I *had* to see more.
Understand, I wasn't a complete nincompoop, but as a
seventeen year old, I didn't know much. Most of my sexual
adventures came as the result of me just being there and
things happening. I suppose I was more of an opportunist
than a mover and shaker, at least in sexual things. Later,
that was to change. Anyway, I knew I wanted to get closer
and hadn't the faintest notion how I might accomplish this .
. . and keep my head on my shoulders.
I had an idea! Hardly original and certainly not a bit
creative, but it was what came to mind at that moment and
without turning it over to examine its merits, I blurted
out, "Want me to rub your feet? I know it's not very
exciting, but you used to love it."
Now this was not entirely without precedent, for I'd
once taken a low-grade massage course that had started with
the feet and then the hands. Most of the people in there
were taking the course hoping to learn about erotic massage.
That never happened and it was not until eight or so weeks
later that we even got to the back! At any rate, I'd
massaged my mom's hands and her forearms and feet and calves
in the past. At that time I was doing it for the practice
and hardly noted that it was my mother's limbs on which I
was working. Now, months later, she just sank deeper into
the couch and wiggled her toes, saying, "Oh, yes! Yes,
indeed, yes. Oh, thank you. Marvelous idea!"
As I was walking around the coffee table, I remembered
reading an erotic of a kid who massaged his
mom's legs so he could look under her robe. Each day his
relaxed a little bit more, the went, and each
day he'd get a little better view. More, he was able to
move up her legs each day. "How dumb!" I thought at the
time. I liked the story, but knew it'd never work. Now, it
seemed like a much better idea.
Then, with the keen awareness of the paranoid, I
thought, "If *I* thought of this, then my probably
did as well. She probably knows what I'm up to." Yet her
relaxed body surrender suggested otherwise as I sat on the
coffee table and said, "Gimmie a footsie, lady."
"Footsie?" she asked, as she picked up one leg and
offered it to me, opening up the view of her entire pantied
pelvis and crotch. "Since when did you get so cute?"
"You want this massage or not?" As if I'd be content
to just walk away if she decided she really didn't want it.
"You can call it anything you want. Just rub it for
me, please."
In retrospect, I don't know if one might have viewed
this as some right of passage. Almost certainly not, yet it
had a profound impact on me that colored my thinking and my
thoughts, seemingly to this day. I mean, why else can I
recall with such vivid clarity the texture of her skin and
the color of her clothes? Why else did this produce a
deeply etched memory that was swamped with eroticism?
Because I'd sat next to her feet on the coffee table,
when she offered me her foot, I'd pulled it slightly aside
to hold it in both hands. This caused her dress to climb
still higher on her thighs and open her legs still more.
Her were a burnished saffron in the long light. I
was so close and my view was so clear, I could see the lacy
edges and the stitching. As well, I could see her auburn
pubic curls through the near- transparent material. No
gusset here.
Squiggling, she groaned in obvious anticipation,
"Billy, you're saving this day from being a total bust.
Thanks."
Bending to my task, I started a slow rubbing, more a
caress really, that ran the length of the sole of her foot.
Initially, softly with a slow build up and then slowly
kneading deeper, causing her toes to curl. Accompanied by
appreciative groans, I attempted to establish a level of
pleasure that might allow me to go farther.
With my head down, looking up through my eye lashes, I
was trying to drink in the vision of her exposed private
place. I knew it was risky, but at that moment, I was out
of my head. I'd suddenly become a sexually-aware and
turned-on and the erotic thrill of that sight had
a much greater pull than the fear of getting caught.
I scooted closer and slipped under her legs, placing
one stockinged foot on my chest as I ran my hands over her
calf from knee to ankle, still staring at the darker shadow
of her seen inside the taut and stretched crotch of
her panties. With one thigh pulled aside, her tendon stood
out, tenting the leg of her a bit and exposing a
rich forest of pubic curls peeking from under the edge.
At that moment, perhaps alerted by my prolonged
silence, she suddenly looked up and saw where my eyes were
staring. I expected an explosion. Since I'd been caught
red-handed, I made no attempt to look away. Instead, I just
continued to massage her calf as I looked into her eyes. In
the periphery of my vision, I could see her dress almost in
her lap. Jesus, what a moment! What was going to happen?
My pulled back a little and said, "There's a
problem here, Billy."
"Oh, shit," I thought. "Here it comes!"
"Let me remove my hose. You can't give me a proper
massage while I'm wearing them."
She didn't wait for a discussion. Instead she suddenly
got up and went into the nearby hall powder room, returning
minutes later with her hose bunched in her hand. She tossed
them on the couch and sat again. I noted that the garter
belt was with the hose as it fell out in plain view. I
suppose that she didn't give it a thought. In contrast, I
was acutely aware of her intimate undergarments lying there.
My mind was whirling. Why hadn't she protested when she
caught me so flagrantly looking under her dress? Was she
collecting her thoughts that she might upbraid me the
better?
Instead, she just smiled and said, "There! I feel
better. Back to the massage, if you please...and quit
looking under my dress!" Her warm smile took away any sting
her words might have had.
She sat directly opposite me and demurely placed her
foot back in my lap, offering me no more than her knees and
lower thighs to see. I worked for another 30 minutes,
kneading and massaging, and while I was able to get fleeting
glimpses of her thighs, I was not able to see again what I
so desired, a close-up and unobstructed view of the crotch
of her panties.
---------------------------------------------------
From that day on, I remained aware that my was a
very attractive and sexy woman. And, as a consequence of
that awareness, I became increasingly familiar with all her
clothes, both from the perspective of what was stylish as
well as what was revealing. I became intimately aware of
her various undergarments, not that I had many opportunities
to see her in them, but more that I couldn't resist snooping
in her lingerie drawers.
was a striking woman, tall - about 5 foot 10
inches - mostly legs it seemed, with athletic-looking calves
and slender thighs. I'd always anticipated that I would be
a tall man, for my father, at 6-2, was the runt of his
family. Couple that with my mom's genes and it seemed
reasonable that I'd be tall. It was not to be. At
eighteen, we were pretty much the same height. I knew just
where the tips of her hit my chest.
I should mention that my had very attractive
breasts, a C- cup with prominent, up-tilted nipples that
were often evident despite her clothes. Sometime later I
was to learn that she was one of those women who were
blessed with exceptionally firm, youthful breasts, that
never lost much of their firmness. She is one of those rare
females that will have youthful into her later
years. Like intelligence, beauty is given to us as an
accident of birth, no more than a fortuitous role of the
genetic dice. It's comforting to be part of a line of good
stock I was told, but I hadn't thought of it in this arena
of sexual attractiveness.
While my mother's figure was model-attractive, it was
her facial features that were eye catching. She had a
straight, almost aristocratic nose and a wide, full mouth.
Her prominent cheek bones set off her unusually attractive
eyes. They were hard to describe, her eyes. She had high,
full, unaltered eye brows, that were dark in color in
contrast to her natural auburn hair. But it was the eyes
themselves that caught your attention, for they were a light
green-blue with an exotic cast. At times I thought she
might have some blood, but I never got a hint of it in
the rest of her family. In any case, they were striking,
often dark and brooding and at times almost electric.
Without altering her facial expression, her eyes could show
humor or joy and, at times, anger. I often wondered what
she looked like when sexually aroused.
But I digress. Back to the awakening of my sexual
awareness.
I didn't set out to seduce my mother, despite the rich
and lurid fantasies I entertained. I held them as deeply
secret and guarded as one would any shameful, licentious
desire. The thought was given no more than masturbatory
acknowledgment, as frequent as that was. Still, the gap
between our thoughts and our actions remains from our
conscious awareness by the strength of our denial. So while
I might have denied a plan to seduce her, my actions would
have argued differently. I set out to be her friend and her
confidant, to reduce if not break down the conventional
barriers between us. This was largely an unacknowledged
plan of mine. I don't recall thinking anything more
detailed than vague objectives of getting closer to her.
Over time, I became more open with her about my self.
I asked her opinions of things, including and dating
and later, sexual things. I worked at being her emotional
intimate. It wasn't difficult, for she was at heart an
emotionally trusting and open women who, it turned out, was
largely unencumbered by repressive standards. To my
surprise, we gradually became good friends. That I would
bond so closely with my was not surprising, given my
nature and that fact that my was largely an absent
force in my life.
I slowly became less conventional in my own modesty.
It was not at all unusual for me to chat with my
wearing no more than my Calvin Kleins. I was aware that she
studiously avoided looking at my body when I was so briefly
dressed, but she never reprimanded me for inappropriate
attire.
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I became aware that when my dad was away, she usually
left her bedroom door open. I took that as an invitation
and often walked in on her to "chat." Not infrequently, I'd
catch her in her bra and panties. She'd say, "Whoops," and
slip on a robe, loosely tied. Once, as I walked into her
room, she was walking out of her large closet wearing only
an unbelted robe that swung open as she moved. From a
moment only, I saw her nude body. It was no more than a
flash that left nothing more than an after- image. It was
that after-image that I examined so repeatedly. I saw firm,
upthrust breasts, and a flash of dense pubic hair at the
base of a flat abdomen...and then she pulled the robe closed
without comment.
I'd gone in to ask her if she'd like to play some
tennis and for a moment was tongue tied, standing there,
staring at her.
"How're you doing, Billy?" she asked as she belted her
robe.
"Doin' OK, Mom," I replied, trying to sound cool and
collected when I was anything but. "You like to play some
tennis?"
"Love to," she replied. "Now?"
"Sure, now."
"OK," she tossed over her shoulder as she walked to a
tall chest of drawers and picked out a pair of small white
cotton panties. I'd become aware of what undergarments she
wore for what occasions and white cotton were for sports.
Her robe was clingy, hugging her body and buttocks. I
was acutely aware of her prominent nipples and the swell of
her rounded mons as she faced my direction. Then, glancing
directly at me for a moment, she turned away and, unbelting
the robe, she stepped into the panties, pulling them up
firmly into her crotch, snapping the elastic. It took no
more than brief seconds, but time was suspended and she
moved in slow motion.
She was standing in front of a large, south-facing
slider window, and intensely back lit. The sheerness of her
robe allowed the bright sun to highlight her body silhouette
and I could see her remarkably well through the translucent
robe. I gazed in rapt awe at the long-legged outline of her
figure, the shadow of a full swinging forward as she
bent to step into her panties. I thought of ripe fruit.
Suddenly it was very still in the room. I think I was
holding my breath. Was she really aware of me there? Did
she know what I was seeing? I knew her as too quick and too
smart to be unaware of how she looked. Were we slowly
escalating to a new level of intimacy? And if so, could I
ever acknowledge it?
As she pulled the robe away from her body for a moment,
I caught no more than a flash of one rounded hip and thigh
and it thrilled me. From a lower drawer, she pulled out a
pair of white tennis shorts and employing the same visual
screen of her robe, pulled them on, again pulling them tight
into her crotch. In my mind's eye. I could see her puffy
mons
In a moment, I became aware that my dick was swelling
and caught down the leg of my shorts, feeling bent and
painful. Before she looked back, I adjusted myself.
Now what? I knew she kept her bras and shirts in the
same chest of drawers. Would she select them and go into
her closet, or even into her bathroom to don them? I
watched as she picked out a brief white cotton bra and a
white T-shirt. Again, she glanced at me, and then shrugging
her shoulders as if to say, "Oh, the heck with it," she
turned away, let her robe drop to the floor where it pooled
at her feet. She quickly put her bra on, hooking it in the
back with a nimble facility that comes as the result of long
practice. Magicians, I think, have the same facility.
I saw, perhaps as never before, how narrow her waist
was and how beautifully full her hips were under her long
and delicately curved back. It was more pronounced and
exaggerated by all that flesh! It took but seconds to don
her bra, but it wasn't quick enough, for I snapped a mental
of a back and side view of her full before it
disappeared. Yet another lurch in my groin. I was a goner.
She looked back. I smiled, wanting her to know that I
had seen her, but not wanting to act snide or smart ass.
"Nice," I said.
She returned the smile and turned toward me as she was
pulling the T-shirt over her head. Again, for a brief
moment, I saw her en face, appreciating how skimpy the bra
was and how much of her simply appeared to ride as
much above of the cup as in it.
I don't recall who won at tennis that day. What I do
recall is the moment of watching her bend over, nude under
her robe, and lifting one foot, place it into the leg
of those white cotton panties. Later, looking at the
line under her shorts, I thought to myself, "I've *got* to
see more of her."
We had slowly grown more relaxed around each other. I
know that that sounds odd, that a and her son would
become more relaxed with each other, but that's exactly what
happened. I think that there has always been some
male-female sexual tension in our culture, mostly buried and
not honored, but certainly operative. And as with many
things, we aren't aware of them until they go away. It's
their absence that highlights their former presence. In
that fashion, I was very aware that many of our defenses had
been lowered.
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Some months later when I'd been away at school for what
seemed like too long a time, I called my just to
chat. We never said anything blatant, but there always
seemed to be a kidding undertone to our conversations,
subtly skirting around sexual things. One day she upped the
ante. "So, getting any?" she asked.
I was stunned. Was she reading my mind?
"No, dammit. You?" I was taking a chance here and I
knew it. I'd been distantly aware that in the last little
while, even when my was home, that they were not
connecting, my and dad. You can't be that close to
someone and not be aware of those charged emotional states,
even when they're never discussed. Mom, I knew, was
frustrated, but we didn't talk about it. As I said, she
never complained.
"No," she answered, and then quickly added, "but we're
not talking about me. What's happening with *you* these
days?"
I was used to her fending me off in this fashion and
hardly paid it any attention. The fact of my emotional
state was that I was lonely. I missed my mom. And oh,
yes...I was horny. I decided to act out on a new fantasy.
I asked her for a date, a mother-son date.
"Mom, I miss you and knowing I won't get back home for
a couple of months, it makes it worse. So I was wondering,
would you come up and visit me? We're having a little dance
here and I don't know anyone. You wouldn't have to stay in a
hotel or anything. I've got a pull-out couch; I'll use that
and you could use my room. Will you let me take you to
dinner and then the dance?"
She made I'm-thinking-about-it noises and then said,
"Well . . . I'm not sure about the dancing part. I've
danced with you - or tried to - before and it's something
about two left feet . . ." and then she laughed.
"Mom! Come on, will you? I'm not that bad," knowing
that I really was that bad.
"All right, all right. I miss you too and I'm a little
lonely myself. I miss our talks. It's be nice to have
dinner and re-connect with you. When's the dance?"
"Two weeks...the weekend after next. Can make it?"
"Sure. Will you pick me up at the airport? I dread
tying to get a bus or a taxi."
We made the arrangements and just before hanging up, I
blurted out, "Mom, I love you and I can't wait to see you.
Gosh, a real date!"
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In retrospect, I can see that I'd been sexually
attracted to my for a long time, but initially too
inhibited to admit it to myself. With the pealing of that
layer of my denial, I came to accept the intense sexual
feelings I had for her, but continued to deny that I
expected or even wanted to seduce her.
Another uncomfortable foray into self honesty brought
me to that point where I knew I *wanted* to be sexually
intimate with her, but realistically, didn't imagine I ever
could. After years of viewing her on some asexual pedestal
labeled MOM, I rapidly came to see her as an extraordinarily
sexy woman. Suddenly, I was in lust.
After all, she wasn't a dummy and she wasn't some
bimbo. I had reason to believe that she was a sexually
intense person, but because of conventional morality, she
didn't feel free to share that side of herself with her son.
I'd been successful in developing and easy-going and
partially uninhibited relationship with her. There was an
unspoken sexual tease to be sure, but it remained submerged
and unacknowledged. How might I change it? That was the
question.
Crudeness would never work. That was a no-brainer.
Similarly, a frontal assault would be ineffective and worse,
insulting. While she might be more susceptible to a secret
romantic connection because of my father's neglect, it
wouldn't be with me, that was clear.
I'd thought of enticing her into something like a
nudist colony, even mentioned it a couple of times. She was
mildly interested, but I knew that that was no more than a
blind alley, an emotional cul-de-sac, and not even a very
sexual one. I feared the stiff and formal behavior I
imagined a nudist colony to be. Too, I suspected that it
would provide at most little more than an avenue for my
voyeurism but no entre into sexuality. Nothing there, I
concluded.
Would some innocent approach move me closer? I
remembered that she'd been willing to allow me to massage
her feet, even had been a bit careless in her posture, at
least at first. Might that provide an avenue of approach?
Then I remembered that my liked her wine. She
wasn't a lush, but it was clear that she didn't stop
drinking just because she began "to feel it." More than
once she'd said, "Why drink if you don't want to feel it. I
drink for effect." I also remembered that when tipsy, she
became something of a sloppy drunk. Not fall-down drunk,
but certainly risque often and careless of appearances. I
once overheard her say, "I drink to make my *friends* more
interesting." This wasn't a common occurrence, but I had
seen it rarely, and only with friends. Well, I was a friend,
wasn't I?
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I was waiting for my at the arrival gate. Boy,
she looked good as she stepped into the arrival area, an
over-night bag hanging from her shoulder and wearing a light
summer dress, uncharacteristically brief with a hem line
well above her shapely knees.
"Hi, good lookin'." I said to her as I stood there,
hands on hips, looking her over.
"Don't just check me out, guy. How about a hug?" she
asked, dropping her bag and stepping into my arms.
Whew! I'd hugged my lots of times, but I didn't
recall such intensity, such a full-body press. I was
acutely aware of the pressure of her pressing into
my chest and more, somehow her crotch was riding on my
thigh. I distinctly felt her pubic bone as I held her close
and kissed her, first on the cheeks, and then looking at the
joy in her eyes, impulsively, I planted a wet one on her
lips. Did I feel a flash of tongue tip?
That fast. It happened that fast. I didn't have a
woodie when I saw her, but when I stepped away from that
kiss, I'd sprouted a boner. I thought I detected her eyes
flitting across my pelvis, but couldn't be sure. To hell
with it, I thought. She knows I'm not a monk.
"Have anything more than this?" I asked, picking up her
shoulder bag.
"You kidding? You ask me up for a week end, for a
dance, and you think I've got it all in that little bag.
Why I wouldn't go to the tennis club with that little bag
alone."
"A steamer?" I groaned.
"Not quite," she laughed, "but I did come prepared."
Prepared for what, I wondered. "Oh, that's OK. I
brought the Four by Four."
"You're taking me to dinner and a dance in a TRUCK?"
she asked in fake horror.
Laying my hand on my chest, I asked in mock
indignation, "Moi? Did you think I was so crass? Me? Of
course not! I borrowed a *van*."
I knew what she thought of vans...that they were thinly
disguised make-out vehicles, employed mainly by the
underclass . . . whoever they were.
She squeaked, "A *van*?" and then laughed. "Oh well,
mothers will do anything for..."
"Kidding! Just kidding, Mom. Actually, I borrowed a
friend's Mercedes sedan...the kind you like...you know,
long, sleek, and very conservative."
"A Mercedes? For me? You must really *want*
something, eh?"
I thought, "Little do you know Mom. I want to get into
your pants." But what I *said* was, "Just to be with you,
Mom, that's all I want," and gave her one of those
shit-eating grins that gives evidence to the lie.
The business of picking up her two sizable suitcases
occupied us for the next little while and it wasn't until we
were driving away from the airport, ensconced in the warmth
of the big Bronco and listening to some soft jazz that I was
able to fully appreciate her being there.
I drove over to the river road, longer but a more
scenic, more romantic route.
"Thought I might take you right home, give you the
chance to take a nap and then clean up before going out to
dinner tonight. That sound all right?"
"Don't *leave* me. Stick around, won't you? I came
this far to spend some time with you. I can nap anytime."
"Don't worry, lady. You won't be able to get rid of
me," I promised, laying the palm of my hand on her knee,
aware of the silky soft skin on the inside of her thigh.
She laid her hand on mine and squeezed it, saying, "I
think I like dating you."
In short order we were home and the Bronco was
unloaded, her bags placed in my room. We chatted non-stop
as I watched her move about my room, making room for her
things. I knew it was her custom to get out of her
traveling clothes straight away, so I stuck around to see
what might unfold.
As I'd hoped, she began to undress, tossing things here
and there, commenting on news from back home, requiring no
more from me than an occasional affirming grunt. When she
was down to her bra and panties, she pulled her robe from a
suitcase and, turning her back, unhooked and dropped her bra
and in almost the same motion, slipped into her robe.
Still with her back to me, the robe hanging open, I
could see her hook her thumbs into the panties' waist band
and pull them down and then off, tossing them carelessly on
the bed just a short distance from me. I stared at them,
brief and rumpled, imagining that they were warm and scented
by her. I was dying to pick them up and hold them to my
face.
When I pulled my eyes from her and looked at
her, I noticed that she had seen where my eyes were. She
looked away, as if to relieve me of the embarrassment I
might feel, and I thought I detected the beginnings of a
faint smile.
She turned and walked into the bathroom, saying, "Just
a minute." The bathroom door would close all the way with
some effort, but it was sufficiently warped that one had to
lean on it in the last inches. She had simply pushed it
toward closed as she walked in. I knew that she would see
the door ajar by inches if she were to sit on the toilet. I
waited for her to come back and push it the remainder of the
way, but she didn't. Instead, she continued to talk to me
as if the door just cracked open was a convenience and not
an embarrassment.
For all our openness, she'd not been this relaxed with
me at home. I strained to hear her intimate sounds. I
needn't have, for when she began to pee, it was remarkably
loud. I could hear her initial tinkle followed by the
characteristic hissing sound of female urination,
splashing against the porcelain, ending with the less
forceful last squirts dribbling into the water. I was
enthralled with the sounds, for it called to my mind vivid
mental imagery.
As she pulled tissue from the roll, I was
suddenly aware that she'd been talking the entire time and
I'd not heard a word. Oh, Lord, I hope she hadn't asked me
a question.
My heart sank when she said, "Will you?" in a tone that
indicated that this was the second time she'd asked it.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I missed that. Would you say it
again, please?"
She laughed and flushed the and as she came out
of the bathroom belting her robe, she smiled and said, "I
asked if you had any of that promised chilled Champaign, and
if so, could I have some?"
We spent the next few hours catching up, first one then
the other talking, sipping inexpensive Champaign and once
again, sinking into the easy familiarity we'd discovered. I
shared with her the intense competitiveness I'd experienced
in school, the long hours I'd been putting in, trying
desperately to maintain the pace and the feeling of
isolation in a crowd. "Christ, Mom, I haven't even kissed a
in months!"
"Poor Uncle Wiggly," she said. The origin of that
expression was lost to me, but I knew it to be a
tongue-in-cheek sympathy.
"Yeah, poor me," I agreed, smiling. She'd never let me
sit on the pity pot long.
Looking at my watch, I whistled and said, "Even if we
rush, we're going to be more than fashionably late. You
want the shower first or shall I?"
"You go first. You know how I like to fuss. I've got
some primping to do if I'm going to impress your friends."
"You spend more time doing less making up than anyone I
know," I complained, not for the first time.
She laughed and reasoned, "You'll like the result.
Now, get going!"
An hour later, near-record time for her, we were off to
the dance, having given up on the notion of dinner entirely.
Our entrance might have been choreographed, for there was an
apparent brief lull in the music as we entered and people
were mostly standing around the edges of the floor, I
thought, just to watch us come in.
My chest was puffed up with pride and self importance,
having this knock-out woman on my arm. She was wearing a
dark green, partially iridescent dress with a flowing, full
skirt and a tight bodice, cut shockingly low. The full
upper portions of her were visible and they seemed
to sway and bounce with her step. I kept reminding myself
not to stare. Sometimes it even worked.
"I must look good," said, "you've been staring
at me all night. Thanks." Suddenly changing the subject,
she asked, "Have you smelled my new perfume?"
I shook my head and leaned toward her neck, as if to
smell the scent behind her ear but she surprised me by
pulling the bodice of her dress away from her and
leaning toward me. Suddenly I had an almost unobstructed
view of her bra-clad tits. Any forlorn thoughts I had about
being suave were lost at the moment. Cartoonists have done
well using my expression, eyes bugging and tongue lolling
out. Tres cool, that was me.
"Nice!" I gasped. I was also quite articulate.
"The perfume?" she asked, laughing and not waiting for
an answer, added, "Now, I want to dance, Mr."
Perhaps I'd had healing of a few damaged neuronal
circuits, or maybe I'd just matured a fraction, but my
dancing was remarkably improved. I could say that, knowing
that I'd not stepped on her feet, at least not as much. A
definite improvement. Keep in mind that that's a relative
statement, given my starting point. Nevertheless, we danced
and danced, initially a bit stiffly, but gradually with
greater grace and closeness. At first we chatted a bit,
mostly about nothing of consequence. You know, social small
talk . Soon, however, she placed her head next to mine and
we danced silently.
Remember that we were about the same height? Then you
can us, she with high heels, dropping her head a bit
to mine. I didn't give a darn what I looked like. I was in
heaven.
"Billy, introduce me to your date, won't you?" said a
classmate of mine as he moved in on us, smiling and holding
out his hand.
"Uh, Mother, I'd like you to meet John...I'm sorry
John, I don't think I ever knew your last name."
laughed easily and held out her hand saying,
"Hi, John. Nice to meet you. My name's Susan."
Strange, I thought. She didn't use our last name.
"Could I have the next dance, please," John asked.
made a production of asking my permission first and
then accepted with a warm smile.
Darn him. He was tall and looked too damn handsome.
Worse, he could dance. You know, the fast dances that had
me confounded.
For the rest of the evening, John and I danced with
Mom. He was actually a pleasant, very polite and socially
at ease fellow who, as it turns out, filled my mother's
desires for "lots and lots of dancing." But perhaps more
significantly, John caused to appear an apparent
inexhaustible supply of chilled Chardonnay wine, only a
little of which I drank, but a great deal of which
quaffed.
I don't ever remember seeing look so and
animated. Her eyes were shining and she laughed easily, a
deep-throated, lusty laugh as she chatted gaily with the two
of us. She has always been a marvelous teller and in
the last hour of the dance, told us a number of outrageously
funny stories, often with herself as the brunt of the humor
and most often with deliciously naughty overtones.
The last few dances were slow and romantic and
insisted that she dance with her date. "You understand,
don't you John? Billy's my main squeeze...he's the guy I'm
really taken with," she said as we moved away.
I was almost floating with pride and when we moved onto
the floor, I looked into her eyes and said, "Thanks, Mom.
That meant a lot to me."
"Well, it's true," she said as she leaned forward and
kissed me lightly on the lips.
I was aware of a sheen of perspiration on her face and
upper torso. Looking down, I could see a large drop of
moisture that was trailing its way down between the heaving
halves of her breasts. I felt very warm and didn't know if
it was from the dancing or something else.
She moved closer and wrapped both arms about me,
holding me tightly to her body. Again, I was acutely aware
of her pelvis against my thigh. My hand had dropped to her
waist and then to her upper buttocks, at first by accident
but when I realized what I was feeling, I pressed a bit more
with my finger rips, feeling the firm muscles of her butt
moving under my hand. The melodic strains of a familiar
number floated around us.
"Thank you, Billy," she whispered in my ear.
"For what, Mom?"
"For everything. For this day, this dance. Mostly for
treating me like a woman. Like I'm special. Like
I'm...desirable. It's been a while." The muted refrain
seemed to wrap us in some terribly romantic cocoon as we
swayed closely together.
She moved against my erection. Part of me wanted her
to know it was there and another part, the scared-little-boy
part of me was horrified. It didn't seem to bother her, so
the lusty part of me won out. I just pulled her even
closer, allowing my hand to slip farther down on her ass.
Even though it was quite dim during the last dance, I
maneuvered us into a darker corner where we simply danced in
place, she with her back to the wall, me with my hand on her
ass, swaying side to side with the melody dimly heard.
She whispered something. I thought it was, "Oh, yes .
. ." but I couldn't be sure. I pulled my head back and
looked into her shining eyes, asking an unspoken question.
Her nonverbal answer was to close her eyes and offer her
lips to me, partly open. I lowered my mouth to hers, barely
touching. I could feel her breath on my lips and smell the
Champaign. Motionless, we stood together, breathing into
each other. Unmistakable this time, the tip of her tongue
flicked out and ran across my lower lip. I returned the
compliment. We didn't really kiss, at least as in pressing
our lips together. Rather, it was a mild version of dueling
tongues accented with heavy breathing.
I could feel her legs against me and her stomach
pressed into mine. As well, I could feel her full
pushed against my chest as I ran my tongue down into one
corner of her mouth, there pushing the hardened tip just
into her mouth and then back out. In, then out, the meaning
blatant.
She groaned and then pulled back, saying, "I turn into
a pumpkin in moments. Get me out of here, please."
Minutes later, in the deep leather bucket seats of that
borrowed 560SEL, pulling away from the dance, she leaned
over and placing a hand on my arm, said, "This is magical.
I don't want it to end. Can we pretend a little longer?"
"Pretend what, Mom?"
"That I'm your date. For just right now, that I'm your
date and we're going home from the dance. For tonight,
don't call me Mom, OK? Call me Susan, won't you?"
Stopping at the exit a moment, I turned to her and
placed my finger tips on her cheek. "Susan? Yes, Susan!
Would you like to dance some more? At my place?"
The radiance of her smile thrilled me. "Yes, Bill, I'd
like that a lot."
-------------------------------------------------------
------------
Walking into my place, I turned down the lights and
switched on some soft music. Taking her in my arms, I said,
"I would like to have this dance, if you please, and then
the next dance, and the dance after that and then . . ."
She shushed me with a finger on my lips and saying,
"Yes, each of them...they're yours." Then, slipping off her
pumps, she nuzzled into my neck, whispering, "For the rest
of this magical evening, I'm yours. Ready or not, here I
come."
This time there was no proper and polite arms-length
beginning to the dance. We simply resumed where we'd left
off, body to body in that familiar shuffle that passes for
soul-felt dancing. Instantly I was acutely aware of her.
Aware of the smell of her hair and the press of her
and the hardness of her pubic bone against me. And, as
instantly, I became hard. I didn't wonder if she could
tell. It was blatant.
"Susan," I asked - it sounded strange to my ear, "could
I kiss you?"
"Of course, Bill. I'd like that."
"I mean a real kiss. An adult kiss. Not some
little-boy-peck-on- the-cheek kiss."
"Of course, a real kiss. I never expected less from
you."
She closed her eyes and offered her partially open
mouth to me, her lips wet and seemingly slightly swollen. I
opened mine and kissed her lips, initially very softly, and
later with more feeling. She kissed back, making no effort
to end the kiss, seeming to melt into it all the more. We
kissed again, and we mouthed each other, breathing into each
other. I gave her my tongue again and she responded the
same way, pushing the urgent, hardened tip of her tongue
deep into my mouth.
I found my self slowly rocking my pelvis into her,
rubbing my erect cock on her thigh. I felt her push back in
a slow, grinding fashion, pushing her pubic bone into me.
"Let's sit, Bill. I want to be closer to you." She
slowly pushed me backward toward the couch and as it hit me
behind the calves and I was falling into it, she added, "Can
I sit on your lap?"
Without waiting for a reply, she half turned and
lowered her bottom into my lap, wrapping her arms about me
in the same motion, her under my chin, her
right under my nose.
"There! That's better," she proclaimed, reaching for
my right hand and placing it on her hip while I placed my
left hand around her bottom. She was sitting right on top of
my hard-on. She squirmed a few times as if better defining
what she was sitting on. "Isn't that better?"
"Ummph," I exaggerated and in a strained voice as if an
elephant were sitting on my chest, I replied, wheezing,
"Yesss. So much better."
"You turkey, you. I hardly weigh anything and besides,
you haven't paid enough attention to me tonight. Well, at
least not in the last few seconds. I want another kiss."
I looked up at her and mimicking her surrender, closed
my eyes and offered her my lips. She immediately ran her
tongue deep into my mouth and groaned, "God, you're
delicious," again grinding her butt on my lap.
Without thinking or conscious decision, I ran the palm
of my right hand up from her hip, across her waist to the
side of her thorax. I missed and was palming the side of
her breast. She kissed me harder in apparent approval so I
went for broke and cupped her full in my hand,
thumbing her erect nipple.
I don't know when we broke that kiss. Actually, I
suspect we never did. It just slid into others. I made no
pretense of touching her tit by mistake. Rather, I palmed
it and weighed it and rolled her nipple between my fingers
in as provocative a fashion as I could imagine. I wanted to
feel her and more, I wanted to be patently blatant
about it, that both of us would know and acknowledge that I
was caressing her and nipple.
We were both moaning and voicing largely incoherent
sounds. She was hugging my head and tousling with my hair
in a passionate, almost frenzied fashion. Our faces were
wet from the open-mouth kissing and licking. I had pulled
down the bodice of her dress, exposing her demi bra. Her
dark areolae were plainly visible through the lacy half cup.
Pulling the bra cup down, her hard nipple popped out as I
bent my head toward her tit.
"Yessss," she hissed, "kiss me there. Suck me, Billy.
Suck my nipple. You've been wanting to do this for a long
time, haven't you?"
"You could tell?"
Laughing, she replied, "Kids think their are
dumb as well as blind. Yes, I could tell. It's tough isn't
it, trying to be subtle and look at my at the same
time!"
All pretense had vanished. Any thought I might have
had for a negotiated seduction was out the window. This
wasn't going as I'd planned and it was wonderful. I
couldn't believe what was happening. My beautiful was
sitting on my lap with her exposed, the nipple
shining with the wetness of my saliva, groaning as she
ground her bottom into me.
"God, Mom," I rasped, "I love you so much. I can't
tell you."
"Yes, yes...I know Billy. Just love me. Hold me
tight. Kiss me."
I couldn't keep my hands off her body. She'd been
squirming around so much that her dress had ridden up on her
thighs, exposing a good expanse of leg. Holding her
skirt-covered buttock with my left hand, I ran my right hand
up and down her body, then down to her left knee and up
under the hem of the dress to the top of her thigh, above
her hose. She scrunched down farther, helping me to lift the
dress. Suddenly she was bared to her pelvis.
"Jesus, Mom! You have such beautiful legs."
Her only reply was to kiss me again and open her legs.
I flashed back to the afternoon I was looking up her dress.
Now, however, I wasn't peeping. She was showing herself to
me. It was clear that I couldn't be content just looking.
Still I hesitated. Could I *touch* her there? Could I cup
her mound in my hand? Actually feel her pussy? What the
hell! In for a penny . . .
I ran my hand up and down the soft inside of her thigh,
moving closer each time to her panties. She moaned and
pushed her pelvis at me. The side of my hand pushed against
the cushy bulge of her crotch. She grunted and
lurched, snapping her legs shut, trapping my hand. I tried
to pull out but she suddenly reached down and with
surprising strength, grabbed my wrist, I thought to pull me
away from her pussy. Instead, she opened her legs a little
and pulled my hand into her crotch even tighter, sawing me
up and down against her cunt, moaning constantly. "Oh, God.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Shit. Shit, Shit. Yes. There! Do it!"
I scrabbled my fingers, trying to get in under a pant
leg edge. She let go of my hand, lifting her hips as if to
help me. I gave up and grabbed the lacy crotch of her
and pulled downward. Again, she heaved up, and with
her free hand, helped me pull them down, first to her low
thighs and then in a tangle of limbs, off, muttering the
whole time, "Get 'em off, get 'em off."
What happened to my sedate and dignified mother?
Where'd she go and where did this lusty woman come from?
Freed of her feet, I pulled her silky to my
nose, inhaling the essence of her as she was groping in my
lap, fruitlessly trying to pull down my fly zipper.
"Christ! And I thought *guys* had a hard time with
girls' bras!" she complained. "Help me, dammit."
"Jesus, I can't open my pants much less pull them down
if you're sitting on me, can I?"
She laughed and said, "This isn't going smoothly at
this moment, is it?"
Heaving her off my lap, dumping her on the couch, I
replied, "No, but it's sure as hell is GOING...and right
now!"
I shucked my trousers and briefs, my hard cock sticking
up obscenely. Mother's dress and bra quickly joined the
frantic pile of clothing on the floor. Suddenly, we were
both nude, or nearly so. I was stunned at this
out-of-control passion that had overwhelmed us.
A very small, detached part of my mind was observing
the blind passion of us. No prolonged, romantic build up.
No inch-by-inch seduction. We'd fallen over the edge, both
of us, and were in some run away free-fall of lust, both
mindful of what was happening and each fueling the consuming
fires of our passion. I think we were mostly beyond words
at this point.
She reached for me, as if to cuddle again, as if to
kiss again. I pushed her back into the couch and her legs
came up. In one motion, I pulled outward on the inside of
one knee, opening her up to me, nude save her hose and
garter belt framing her wet, swollen and open pussy. I gazed
at it in absolute awe, it seemed for a long time but in fact
was probably only seconds. Then, making eye contact, I
gradually lowered my head toward her crotch, that she would
know my full intent.
I paused, studying here pussy. As I expected, she
trimmed the edges of her luxuriant pubic bush. Her lips
were bare. I looked, but couldn't see her anus. That area
lay in shadow.
Smiling, she murmured, "Oh, yes!" and slouched down
even farther, arching her pelvis up to meet me.
In contrast to my usual too-fast-to-savor-the-moment
hurry, I moved as in glue, so slowly. Looking alternately
at her open and then into her eyes, I continued
lowering myself slowly. I placed the palms of my hands on
her thighs, pushing them open even more. She murmured
approval, "Yes, that way."
The sometimes-rational part of my mind was boggled.
Only a little while ago, I was dancing cheek to cheek with
my mother. Not quite innocent, to be sure, but a league
from holding her legs open that I might see her better.
How'd this happen? My libido suggested that I not screw it
up by "thinking" about it.
The musky scent of her wafted up to me, ripe and
intoxicating. I knew that smell. Knew it from a hundred
times that I'd picked up her soiled panties, but it was
never this erotic, this intimate. I drank in her scent as
one would savor the heady aroma of heated brandy. I pulled
it in and held it.
I felt her hands on the back of my head, pulling me
gently toward her. I gave myself to her control and allowed
her to guide me to her pleasure. She pulled my head into
her crotch and my lips first touched her pubic hair above
her slit. She rapidly corrected, pushing my head down to
the uncovered clit. I kissed it softly and she ran her
fingers through my hair as she crooned, "Oh, Billy. Kiss me
there. Suck me. Please suck me."
I pursed my lips and kissed all around her clitty,
occasionally flicking it with the tip of my tongue. Each
time she lurched, as if shocked by a small jolt of
electricity. She rolled her pelvis against my face, rubbing
on my mouth as I tongued inside the wet and swollen lips of
her cunt. At the bottom of her slit, it was a swamp she was
so wet. I curved my tongue into the pool of her secretions
and pulled some up, wetting her clit with her own juices.
Her speech had become almost guttural as she
explosively exhaled each time I drove my tongue into her.
"Unh...God, I, unh . . . needed that, unh...deeper, Billy,
unh...take me . . ."
I pulled back, my face drenched, and kneeling between
her legs, I fisted my painfully hard cock that she might see
me and again looked into her eyes. Her face was in half
shadow and her eyes were dark pools.
I could see her shift her vision to my cock as I slowly
stroked the shaft, bunching up the skin about the bulbous
head and then pulling it slowly back. I looked at her open
and then at my cock before I again looked into her
eyes, asking the silent question. Her answer was equally
silent and equally unmistakable. She looked at me gravely,
then pulled her knees up and out, while running the inverted
V of her fingers down to her pussy, opening it up in
invitation.
Suddenly she clasped her crotch in her hand as if
shielding it and with a wide-eyed look of alarm, said,
"Wait! Billy, *think* a minute. Think about what we're
doing. Do you know what this means?"
I slowly shook my head, not understanding.
She rushed on after her rhetorical question, "If we do
this - and God, I want to - there's no turning back.
There's no pretending it never happened. Our relationship
will never be the same. Billy, this is a HUGE step. Are
you sure?"
"As sure as I know how to be, Mom...uh, Susan. If
you're worried I'll suddenly become some arrogant,
impossible-to-control jerk after this...relax. I'll be the
same person I've always been. I don't want to change our
relationship. Well, except this way. Do you believe me?"
With the same look of concern, she stared at me and
then slowly nodded her head. Then, her eyes softened and
she smiled and whispered, "Yes."
Leaning forward, I gently moved her hand away from her
crotch. I knee-walked to her up-thrust pelvis and bent my
cock down to her, running the head through her wet trough
and then, wielding it like a stick, I used it to thump on
her clit. I started softly but rapidly increased her clit
flogging until she was gasping and twitching.
"God damn you, Billy. Quit teasing me. You're hauling
coals to Newcastle. I'm ready, dammit." She smiled, taking
the sting out of the words and then added, "Fuck me, you
shit."
Shit? I was seeing a side of my I didn't know
existed.
Again, bending my impossibly hard cock, I forced the
head into her pussy, asking, "Want more?"
She answered by thrusting her pelvis at me, effectively
burying my cock deep in her vagina, ending any thought I had
of feeding it to her slowly. Who was I kidding? As if I
could have waited!
I fell forward on her, mashing her under my
chest. Her hands were above her head and I grabbed each
wrist with my crossed hands and imprisoned her arms. I
supported much of my weight with my elbows, but allowed my
mass to hold her down as I thrust into the female depth.
"Feel my cock, Mom...Susan. Feel the head of my cock
slip into you...into your cunt." I emphasized the T sound.
"Feel it push open the walls of your pussy. Feel me open
you up. There! Can you feel the head of my cock touch your
womb?"
Her only answer was to grunt and thrust back at me.
Then we proceeded to rut. Short rapid strokes followed by
slow, longer strokes, occasionally pulling all the way out
and then slamming in again.
"I'm inside you. Feel me inside your woman slit."
She struggled and thrashed about, seeming to fight me,
but never so much they she actually got away. We both
supported the sham of me forcing her, almost raping her. Of
course, the bucking and rolling of her hips gave evidence to
the lie of her struggles to extricate herself.
I spoke into her ear constantly, but I can't tell you
exactly what I said. I simply gave mindless utterance to
the train of imagery marching through my head. I remember
only that it was very vivid and very lewd, just like my
dirty talk.
is multi orgasmic and she bucked her way through
her first minutes after we started fucking. Thereafter,
I controlled her orgasms, or so it seemed to me. I would
slowly build up the pace of our copulation and
concomitantly, edge into increasingly lascivious spoken
imagery, describing in lurid detail what I was thinking and
what I wanted to do with her.
"Feel my hardness. Feel my shaft...inside your pussy."
She'd throw her head back, tendons straining in her
neck, eyes closed and mouth gasping. Then, face contorted,
almost as if in pain, she'd begin whipping her head back and
forth, a wail building in her throat and she'd again.
We rested a few moments, my cock hard in her pussy,
still holding her wrists above her head. I whispered in her
ear, "I want you to get on your knees, facing away from me.
I'm going to fuck you from the back."
She gasped, "My ass?"
"That'll be later, little girl," giving her my oil-can
Harry voice, "Right now, I want to sink into your woman
place, that sweet, hot pussy, but from the back.
Doggie position."
Would my dignified submit to kneeling in front
of me, ass in the air, that I might fuck her like an animal?
As she was scrambling around she said over her
shoulder, "God, Billy. I love it doggie style. How'd you
know?"
Kneeling just behind her, I looked down at her very
narrow waist and her beautiful ass and replied, "Didn't.
But I do now. You're looks so sweet, pooched out that
way between your legs."
"Jesus, you've got a wonderfully dirty mouth." Then
she chuckled, adding, "And I love it."
She lowered her head to her crossed forearms,
accentuating the sway of her back. With her ass pointing
up, the cheeks of her buttocks opened, I could see for the
first time her ass hole. It was tan, slightly darker than
the surrounding skin, puckered and tight looking. I wondered
if she'd ever had Dad's cock in her butt.
"You're looking at my ass, aren't you?" As if reading
my mind, she added, "I love anal sex but your thinks
its somehow dirty."
"Susan, I've dreamed of this. Months...couple of years
even. And now we're here. It's one of those rare times when
the realization is greater than the expectation."
"Don't tease me, Billy. Touch me. I'm hungry for
you."
With the fingers of my right hand pointing down, I
hooked my thumb in her and cupped her mons. I'd read
of the so-called G-spot and searched for it with my thumb.
Almost instantly I was rewarded.
"Umph...yes! Right there! God, what you're doing to
me? I can't believe this."
I rolled the pulp of my thumb over that slightly raised
tissue under her pubic bone as I fingered her clit on the
outside. With my left hand, I traced feather-light touches
around the rim of her anus. The sphincter tightened and then
relaxed. I pushed the tip of my left index finger against
her anal opening, applying constant but gentle pressure.
"Oh, God. What are you doing? I can feel so many
feelings but I can't tell where they're coming from. You're
driving me ca-RAY-zy."
Her hips were rolling and I had only to hold my right
hand still to allow her to set the rhythm and intensity. I
continued to gently apply pressure to her anal sphincter,
occasionally bending down to drop a dollop of spittle on her
softening ass hole.
"Yes, yes, yes," she chanted. "Do that. Do
*everything*!"
As she rolled her pelvis, pushing her butt back against
me, my left index finger slowly slipped into her ass up to
the first and then the second joint and finally all the way.
Curving my finger forward in her rectum, I could feel my
thumb in her through the thin wall of tissue
separating those two cavities. God, I couldn't believe what
was happening!
Her orgasmic song started again, initially deep in her
chest and raising to her throat, ending in a wail. Vocal
restraint was not her strong suite. For one who was
normally so properly restrained, it clearly did not extend
to sexual passions and orgasms. I idly wondered if my
neighbors could hear her, and then dismissed it, not caring
a whit if they did.
We both slumped to a pile of entangled limbs, she
exhausted from another orgasm and me...well just emotionally
wiped out.
After several minutes, she stirred. I slowly pulled my
fingers from her body and then just hugged her ass and her
hips, softly raining kisses on her buttocks, murmuring
sounds of love.
"You're not finished are you?" she asked in a tone of
alarm, looking back over her shoulder.
Kneeling, I thrust my still-hard cock in her direction
and asked, "Does this *look* like I'm finished?"
"Oh, good! Fuck me now, won't you? From the back?"
With renewed vigor, she again pointed her butt at me.
Holding her hips in my hands, I pushed at her, but my cock
missed her repeatedly until she reached back between
her legs and, taking my errant dick in her hand, guided it
to her cunt's entrance.
"There!" she declared with some pride of
accomplishment.
Then, as I slowly stroked in and out of her soggy sex,
she reached back again and caressed my balls, cupping them
in the palm of her hand.
"God, Billy! You've got huge balls!"
I suppose I took it as a judgement and said lamely,
"Uh, I guess if some of that growth went into my dick rather
than my nuts, I'd have a big cock." It's true that are
always concerned about the size of their dicks.
"Baby, it's perfect. It just couldn't be any better.
You couldn't pleasure me more. And you know? I *want* you
to fuck my ass. If it were any bigger, I don't think I
could take it there."
We fell silent, grunts and sighs excepted, as we
continued this languorous coupling. Still holding her hips,
looking down at the beauty of my cock slipping into her
swollen cunt...in and out...in and out. The in-an-out
game.
Riding the pleasurable plateau, content for the moment,
I remembered something she had said and asked, "Did you
really know that I was...uh, lusting for you...all those
months?"
"Sure. Oh, it shocked me at first. Thrilled me too.
But I was shocked and didn't know how I felt really. I
suppose it really hit home when you were massaging my feet
and looking under my dress. I was a little tipsy and it
gave me a thrill...that you were attracted to me."
"Then what?" I asked.
"Then what? I don't know. I was confused. You know.
Mother's duty. Conventional morality. I was horny. Your
father...well, let's leave that alone for now, OK?"
"OK, but tell me, was I so obvious?"
"Yes and no, Billy. You weren't rude or anything, but
for someone like me, someone who already loved you and who
was affection starved, I was a set up. I was very aware of
your attention. Looking for it even."
I began patting her butt with the palm of my right
hand. "Did you know about...about the panties?"
"What about them? That you liked to touch 'em? I knew
that right away, but it was a while before I saw you pick
them up to smell them. That what you mean?"
I picked up the pace of the patting. Now it was a soft
spanking, first on one cheek, then on the other. "Yeah. I
was afraid you'd find out, but I couldn't stop. They're so
erotic. I love the scent of you."
"Hmmm, that feels good on my butt." She wiggled her
ass and, glancing over her shoulder, she continued, "So, I
thought about it and decided it wouldn't to enter into
a little game with you. I knew that this wasn't going
anywhere...we'd never actually *do* anything, but I enjoyed
the sexual tension."
"Changing your clothes...were you flashing me?"
"Of course. I wanted to give you a thrill. But what I
found out was that *I* was the one who was getting the
thrill. It got me wet, showing myself to you. Several
times - you may remember this - when I left you to go into
my bathroom, I had to masturbate. And that gave me a
thrill. Sitting on the toilet, fingers on my sex, knowing
you were right out there. I wanted you to know and at the
same time, I was terrified that you would know. Funny,
huh?"
Another glance over her shoulder. "A little harder,
please?"
I increased the intensity of this erotic spanking. Her
cheeks were getting pink and she was getting wetter. I
could see the sheen of her juices on my cock as I pulled it
from her tight, wet sheath.
"Did you ever think about 'doing it' when you were
playing with yourself, Susan?"
"With you?"
A harder slap. "Yes, with me!"
"I was really embarrassed then, even with myself, but
yes, of course I thought about it. I tried to think of
other things when I was masturbating. I tried to hold off
thoughts of you, but so often - sometimes stuck and unable
to get off - thoughts, visions of you would pop into my head
and whoosh! I'd get off. After a while, I gave up and just
used you all the time. I'd day dream about you and get wet
when you'd see me dressing."
Nodding in recall, I said, "I'd get so hard, it'd hurt.
I was always afraid you'd see me and be insulted. But it
was so thrilling, I couldn't stop. Did you know that?"
"That it was thrilling or that you got hard? I
certainly knew about your stiffies. And I knew it had to be
about me. One part of me was shocked I guess, but the
stronger, the sexual part I mean, was excited. I tried not
to look, but I did. I just couldn't help myself."
I was brought to a halt by the intensity of my
emotions. "I *thought* you knew and averted your eyes
because you disapproved." Laughing, I added, "I'll never
hide it again."
Wiggling her ass, she asked, "Why'd you quit spanking
me, Billy? It was just starting to feel good. And by the
way, how'd you know I *liked* to be spanked, anyway? You
seem to know a lot for a guy!"
"I read a book once," I quipped, as if that explained
everything. I resumed the spanking, alternating one cheek
and then the other.
Arching her back, she rested her head on her forearms
again and observed, "I've quit trying to figure it out. I
mean, I'm a feminist and a strong woman, but I *love* to be
spanked. I think it's a sexual thing, you know, a pleasure
thing and it has nothing to do with feminism. A little
harder, if you please?"
Turning up the intensity current a notch, I slowly
moved to the bottom of her buttocks, to the crease where the
cheek meets the thigh. With only my fingers, I slapped the
tender area closer to her vulva.
"Oh, YES!"
Then I moved inward, right next to the fur-trimmed
swollen lips of her and continued the erotic slapping,
asking, "And here?"
"Yes...no. I mean, spank me right on my pussy, Billy.
I'll come for you...it's getting closer...yes, right
there...oh, yes, yes, yes...shit, shit . . .," and her words
again degenerated into a crescendo of pleasure as she thrust
her hips further back at me. I slipped my thumb into her
cunt, pressing the soft tissue right behind her pubic bone.
Thrashing her head and beating her small fists into the
pillow, she shuddered, once, and then again, then fell into
a heap, sobbing.
I held her close in my arms, patting her head and
murmuring soft sounds of loving. "It's OK, Mom, it's really
OK. I'm here. You're all right."
She nodded her head, sobbed again and with her voice
catching in her throat, said something like, "I'm OK, Billy.
There's nothing wrong except I can't remember when I've felt
like this. It's never happened just like this before. I've
never felt so...so much. It's almost scary. But I'm
certain about one thing," and then she stopped.
"What's that, Susan?
"That I love you, Billy. I don't know if we've done
the right thing or not, but I know that I love you. And I
know that there's no going back. I'm not sure what to do
next, but I want you to know that this was one of the more
beautiful moments of my life. I want you to know that I
have no regrets about this, about us...that I love you very
much.
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