Chapter 13

The house was mostly dark when I arrived home from my evening mid-term. I hadn’t done all that well, partly because I’d spent too much time watching recordings and reading letters but mostly because I didn’t feel right about leaving those pictures for Paul to find. I didn’t feel good about passing on a picture of Mom, and I didn’t like myself for pushing him to take his mother that way, which I was sure he would do, and equally sure she would let him.

Mom was reading in bed, waiting up for me to see how I’d done even though she wasn’t feeling well. Seeing her condition, I told her I’d tell her all about it but ony after I made her some hot lemon and honey to go with the dessert I’d stopped to pick up for her in a futile attempt to alleviate my guilt. I left in just my boxer shorts even though Mom mentioned that Mary might be about since she had offered to keep an ear out for Dad when she saw Mom was sick.

I was cautious going downstairs but the kitchen was dark so I put the kettle on and prepared a mug with honey and the teapot for me. Mary scared the hell out of me when she spoke softly from the doorway.

“That’s a dangerous way to dress in a house with two lonely old women lurking about.”

“Jesus! Mary! You scared the hell out of me,” I exclaimed, my heart pounding, trying to breathe and not laugh in concert with her obvious amusement at my fright followed by my hands trying to cover myself.

“Don’t hide on my account,” Mary laughed, moving toward the counter with a tray which she’d obviously just carried down from Dad’s room. “Us older women don’t mind good looking younger guys in their underwear.”

“Sorry Mary. Mom told me you might be here but it was dark so I thought you’d already gone downstairs.

“No worries. Is that for your mom?”

I nodded.

“That’s sweet. I wish Paul would be so thoughtful.”

As Mary began loading the dishwasher with the dishes from the tray, I noticed she was wearing a robe that was very loosely tied, and as she moved, I was treated to short glimpses of her belly, the stretch of skin stretching up to her neck through the valley between her breasts, and her legs. She clearly wasn’t wearing anything more than panties underneath that robe. A warming thought indeed.

“Are you not feeling well?” I asked.

Mary shook her head. When she finished clearing the tray, she asked me a question, seeing me set out a third mug on the counter. “Is that for me?”

“Yup. Hot lemon for my favorite ladies, and echinacea tea.”

“Oh, that’s so nice. Thank you.”

Mary stepped close to me, putting her hand on my arm and leaned up to give me a peck on the cheek.

“That’s all, for such a nice guy?”

“I wouldn’t want to make you sick.”

“But I’ve already got a sniffle,” I faked sniffing my nose, “and I haven’t got anything else to do but wait for the water to boil.”

Mary planted two soft kisses on each cheek but I used my arms to block her from stepping away, gently prodding her toward me for a real kiss, which she allowed.

“Another,” I pleaded, when we finished.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mary said, her voice husky. She smiled at me after glancing down at my shorts. “I don’t want to send an excited boy upstairs for a sick mom to handle.”

I laughed in turn but kept her close. “You could come upstairs, too,” I suggested.

“Oh, I’m sure Susan would love that,” Mary laughed out loud, leaning back, her legs pressing against mine as my hands on her waist kept her close.

“You never know with my Mom,” I joked. Mary’s robe had parted when she stretched back, leaving a gap in the front all the way down. Her pale blue panties were showing through a four inch gap, drawing my eyes even though the insides of her breasts were also available for viewing through an even wider gap. I pulled her close, seeking her lips for another kiss.

“No, seriously, Dave. I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she protested, but she didn’t slow her approach to my face, or turn hers away.

The kettle was boiling furiously when we broke from that long, tender kiss, each with face flushed and short of breath.

“Whew,” Mary gasped as I turned to fill the teapot and then the two mugs prepared with lemon and honey while Mary placed the lid on the teapot.

“The tea has to steep,” I said, leaning back on the counter.

Silently, Mary stepped sideways into my arms and up on her tippy toes, her arms encircling my neck. She pulled my head down to hers and our mouths joined in another languid kiss. I lost myself in the feel of her and was surprised when she looked down at the end of the kiss and back up, laughing softly. I was hard, but I hadn’t felt it growing or even realized I was pressed against her panties. I was embarrassed. I had enjoyed our lazy kiss and didn’t want to ruin that intimacy by getting a boner, but Mary wasn’t bothered. She looked down at the growth trying to escape from my boxers.

“That’s ok,” she said, “it’s kind of flattering that I can do that for a young guy like you.”

I looked down too, but not at my errant steed. I was noticing the prominent front of Mary’s panties, her robe having now fallen completely open.

“But I was just kissing you. I didn’t mean to...”

“Really, it’s ok,” Mary assured me, still gazing at my hardon.

And I had difficulty tearing my eyes away from her mound. I don’t why its projection so enhanced its erotic appeal, but it did. As we each continued our separate observations, I pressed my hips forward, closing the gap between my tented boxers and Mary’s swollen rise. Upon contact, we both sucked in our breath. I tilted Mary’s face up to kiss her again and this time our bodies were actively glued together. My hands slipped under her robe to her waist and I relished in the feel of her skin under my fingers and the brush of her breasts across my forearms. She pressed the whole length of her legs against mine right down to our feet which were also exploring each other. We were engaged in a complete body hug. When that kiss ended, we were panting heavily, and my stiff thermometer was much more familiar with her spongy heat source. We remained pressed together.

“I want to be with you Mary,” I gasped.

“But your mother,” Mary panted back.

“She’s losing interest in me,” I replied, realizing the truth of it as I said it aloud. “I think she was mostly enamored with the forbidden thrill. She certainly wasn’t doing it from a sense of motherly compassion, like you.”

“Yes, my duty,” Mary mumbled. “Paul is completely focused on self gratification. I might be doing him more harm that good. If I give yielding to him he won’t be happy with a decent woman, but if I stop he’ll go back to his comics.” Mary’s head collapsed forward onto my chest.

I felt an enormous guilt then, thinking of the pictures I had taken of Mom and left on the counter for Paul to find. He was probably waiting impatiently for Mary to come downstairs so he could put her legs through the straps, just like Mom’s in the pictures, so he could have her as gratuitously as I had taken Mom. Except, in my case, I think Mom had somehow wanted it more than I.

“Don’t do it, Mary. Stop while you can.” I tried to derail Paul from the track I’d laid directly to his mother.

“I don’t know if I can. He’s my son. He’s been my life for years and I’ve never denied him anything.”

“Promise me, you’ll try, if only for his own good.”

“I’ll try,” Mary agreed but without conviction, her head still laying on my chest.

“Will you promise me one other thing?” I asked.

Mary pulled back to look at me, her eyes questioning, tears forming in the corners.

“Will you promise this won’t be the last time we can meet like this? I like being around you, and holding you. It feels so right, so natural.”

Mary’s eyes sparkled as I spoke and there was something swelling and relaxing at the same time in her face, a happiness and a relief.

“You don’t know how much that means to a woman,” she said. “It’s been so long since anyone said something like that to me.” She quickly reached up to kiss me, slipping her tongue in my mouth for a short but hot kiss. Then, she pulled away, picked up her mug and walked toward her suite. “That’s a promise,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Slowly, I put the tea, hot lemon, and dessert on the tray and made my way upstairs. I no longer had any interest in straps of any kind. I joined Mom in bed, drinking my tea while she watched TV and sipped her hot lemon. I guess I dozed off because I was startled when Mom shook me with her hand.

“I feel so much better now, sweetheart. Come on,” she urged me, one leg already pulled back with its ankle through the strap, her hand, holding a remote, extended toward the DVD player/recorder, the TV already shut off with the other remote.

“Come on, Dave,” she urged again, tossing the remote down, fitting her right foot through the strap.

I looked at my mother, a new set of emotions washing over me. My disdain was short-lived, however. What young guy can look at a willing woman, legs bent back to her shoulders, pantiless, her nightgown pulled up above her breasts, tits laying on her tummy squished between her bent back thighs, nipples hard and reaching for the roof, pussy bare, open and glistening with expectation? Not me.

“Hurry,” Mom complained as I rolled onto my knees, my cock already lengthening to attack strength, its head pointing unerringly at her wet cunt. “Hurry!”

It was a long fuck. I tried hard to vary my pace, shifting my cock around unexpectedly, gamely trying to force gasps and grunts from this horny, horny woman, desperate to keep her interest.

Yes, that statement about her being more interested in the taboo nature of our relationship than in me reverberated in my head. Something about it rang deep and true. Mother was interested in more than me, and it wasn’t her just fooling around with Paul that unsettled me. Something else was nagging me, not quite conscious, vague but compelling. As I turned on my side to sleep, Mother disentangled herself to go to the bathroom, and that elusive thought returned, bouncing just below awareness. What was it?

Mom returned just before I dozed off again and set off two sounds that jarred the hell out of me, simple sounds that triggered unknown emotions, sounds that would eventually lead to a new understanding of my life.

Click. Clatter.

The sound of a remote shutting off a device followed by the clatter as it was tossed onto Mom’s bedside table, just before she turned out the light and crawled back into bed.

But the TV was already off.

I slept fitfully that night, coming half awake several times, and the next morning I awoke with images from strange dreams still filling my mind. Usually, images like that quickly fade as you try to recall the dreams associated with them even though they were vividly experienced. But that didn’t happen this time. Throughout the day, these dreams kept bursting into my head, in ever greater detail.

Strange dreams. Dreams about me and mom hanging out together, almost always in the house and usually in her bedroom. Innocent dreams that still made my whole body tingle with excitement and anticipation. Most often these dreams involved me keeping Mom company while she brushed her hair or painted her nails.

In the first dream, I was sitting on the floor watching cartoons. Mom was yelling, ‘Turn it down’ as the commercials, always louder, came on. I crawled forward to twist the knob and, turning back, saw Mom sitting on the couch, one knee raised with her heel tucked tight to her leg, resting on the edge of the cushion while she applied red polish to her toenails. My dreamlike self was fascinated, for reasons unknown except that it felt good watching her simple feminine movements, dipping the strange bottle cap with its little brush and dabbing it, soaked in red, delicately on her toes. I stared, mesmerized by her feet and her long, wiggly toes. Even when the cartoons started, I continued to watch my mother, my eyes now straying beyond her feet, climbing up her legs to her knees, then down her other leg stretched across onto the coffee table. ‘Aren’t you going to watch your cartoons?’ her voice floated toward me, distant and wavy. The tingle as Mom’s big smile washed over me, soft and rewarding, upon my response, ‘No.’

In the second dream, I was sitting on the same couch watching TV. Somehow, I knew it was years later. Mom sat down, setting her nail paraphernalia on the coffee table, spreading a small towel on the seat beside her, closer to me than her, before turning to place her bare feet on the towel. I turned automatically, ignoring the TV to watch her every movement as she prepared her toes, first cleaning them with some solution before painstakingly applying the polish. Her dress was pulled up so she could watch her work, resting her chin on closed knees, twisting her foot this way and that as she examined each toe as it was finished, then holding her foot up for my approval. She talked softly to me the whole time but I couldn’t understand a single word, just the steady purr of her voice.

Years later I lay across the end of Mom’s bed, filling in a crossword puzzle book on Mom’s instructions as she did her nails in similar fashion, feet on a towel. I could see much more of her legs now, young legs, beautiful legs, as I lay in front of her. But when she lay back against the pillows to do her hands I could see much, much more as she moved her feet apart, toes spread to help the paint dry without smudging. I lay my head down between entries in the crossword, my prying face hidden by Mom’s skirt, my eyes free to wander up and down her thighs, roaming across her panties at will, pressing myself into my mother’s mattress, the whole room full of her perfumed scent.

These longer dreams were followed by a bewildering array of snapshots. Brushing Mom’s hair as she sat before her dresser in her nightgown, father not there for some reason, watching Mom’s front in the mirror as she cast her eyes down, reading a novel. Bringing things into Mom’s room; or just coming in answer to her call and catching her putting on or taking off a dress, walking around in just a slip; or pulling something on over her head just in time to catch a glimpse of her bare breasts; or seeing Mom bend over looking for something under her bed, asking me where it was, and me fumbling for an answer while staring at her panties revealed by her short nightie slipping up over her behind. And then there was Mom casually reading on a hot afternoon, absently undoing her blouse and toying with her lapels, pulling them apart to reveal the wondrous swells of her bare breasts, seemingly unaware of the revelation as she leaned far forward to retrieve a drink she had placed on the coffee table instead of more conveniently on the table beside her, pausing as she became suddenly interested in particular passage, calling it to my attention and reading aloud, pointing so I could lean toward her and follow along, my eyes glued to her swaying tits, never her book.

Increasingly, there was the dampening presence of my father placing a figurative straight jacket on my mother’s close relationship with me. So often she was stiff and reserved when he was around but sweet and close when he left. She would reveal herself to me in some ‘accidental’ way, more and more frequently, just before father arrived, and often she seemed to allow him to catch her but not quite showing as much as she had actually revealed to me. My father yelling after I had gone. Mom would find some excuse to pull her skirt up when father was in the room but later, when he was no longer there, she would simply pull her dress up, displaying herself without any need for justification.

On Sunday drives, Mom would insist on sitting in the back, placing the picnic basket on the seat beside her and sitting directly behind Dad so she could see me past the headrest. She would beckon, urging me closer so she could hear, pulling her skirt high on her legs as she leaned toward me, creating competition with her blouse, unbuttoned after getting into the car. She would engage me in conversation to keep my attention, though there was no need to convince me to focus on her. She would do girlish things, suddenly giggling at something I said, pulling one knee high and back toward herself, grasping it in her hand and laying her head upon it, leaving me free to troll her open thighs and paint my eyes over her panties, stretched tight over the bulging womanhood squeezed between her legs.

One argument after returning late from such a picnic was particularly loud. I had gone to bed early, aware that my father was particularly agitated. There was the general rumble of his voice with the odd interjection from Mom. The words all tumbled together but for one stark sentence that suddenly burst forth like fireworks, vivid against a grey background, “I’m going to fuck him, just like your mother said, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it, you motherfucker!”

I realized these were memories and not dreams. Memories of my mother getting back for all the years she suffered through the humiliation of my father fucking my grandmother while they lived in her house, her need for revenge becoming stronger every year. But why had I repressed them and especially that so specific warning from Mom, until now?

I didn’t think more about those sounds that had triggered my dreams, the click and clatter, until we were eating supper. I didn’t do my cleanup job after dinner or join Mom in the living room. Instead, I went upstairs, going directly to the remote mother had so strangely operated the night before. A suspicion had formed in my mind. Clicking the remote on, I wandered into my father’s room, my old one, to find him sitting up in bed, staring vacantly at the small portable TV placed conveniently on a swivel stand anchored to the foot of his special bed. I walked to his side and turned to see what was on TV. There, still shocking even though it confirmed my suspicion, was a live view of my mother’s bed. Quickly, I walked back and clicked the power off on the remote, leaving it on the bedside table before returning to my father’s side. The TV was now showing a popular sitcom.

Stunned, I returned to our bedroom. Mom was sending a live feed so Dad could — no, had to — watch us fuck. Watch his son fuck his wife. What had he thought when I plowed my cock into her mouth, her hands held by the straps, or pounded her pussy with her ass cocked up in the air, ankles similarly entwined? Thankfully, he probably could only see my back, my ass rhythmically slapping down onto her thighs. But wait. I picked up the remote, turned it on and pressed one of the function keys. Quickly running back to my former room, I confirmed my second suspicion. The TV now displayed Mom’s bed from the side. Several more trips running back and forth revealed that the function key cycled through six camera positions. Mother really knew how to fuck a guy, I thought. Hexa-retribution.

“What were you doing up there, running all around?” Mom asked when I finally came downstairs. She had already sipped her way through half a bottle of red wine and her robe was parted to display her cleavage and lovely legs. I could tell she was going to want it again tonight. How could I resist? She was good looking and she knew how to tease. I knew that I’d have a stiff cock an hour before we went upstairs and would be champing at the bit to get into her. My problem was definitely keeping her interested, not the other way around.

True to form, Mother had teased me into a sufficiently eager state by the time we finished watching a movie from our collection of DVDs. She used the same techniques in my dream memories, a flash of tit here, increasingly longer and greater displays of her legs, her hand touching my arm, fleeting at first, then longer and more often until she steadily held my forearm or leg, squeezing them in reaction to some action on the screen. She was marvelously seductive. Even sending me in to clean up the kitchen before joining her in bed was calculated to increase my desire, keeping me talking as she sashayed up the steps, knowing I was watching her delightful behind which seemed to have an extra swagger tonight.

Mom was back downstairs within five minutes, sauntering into the kitchen carrying her wine glass from the living room, picking up another bottle and blowing a kiss my way. She was wearing an old cotton nightie, very pale yellow, worn thin with age. She must have found it on the bottom of a drawer. Its threadbare coverage made her look even sexier, hardly classifying as a covering since you could see her skin underneath. Her ass was simply accentuated in every way, the material molding to her cheeks. She looked back just as my head turned to caress her cheeks with my eyes as I bent over the open dishwasher door, pouring soap into the container. She smiled over her shoulder, patting her butt, wine glass held by its stem between her fingers, “Don’t be long,” she husked.

I stuffed in a few more dishes, hurriedly shut the door and fumbled with the buttons, finally succeeding in starting the wash cycle. Rushing up the stairs, I realized she was probably going to turn the cameras on to goad Dad, in the longshot chance he knew what was happening. Remembering how he had startled me with his disconcerting gaze so long ago, I realized he may indeed know. I’ll find the remote and shut it off, I thought. I won’t subject him this torture.

When I entered the bedroom, Mom was lying on her tummy in the middle of the bed on top of the covers propped up on her elbows. I stopped. She turned to look at me, sipping from an almost full glass of wine. Her legs were spread wide open with her feet pointing toward the corners of the bed. A soft, white braided rope circled each ankle and trailed loosely to the edge of the bed, disappearing over the corners to the floor. She still wore the threadbare nightie but it no longer reached to mid-thigh, she had pulled it up to her hips, haunches exposed, ass naked.

“Remember this?” Mom asked in the same husky voice she used downstairs.

I nodded.

“You were kind to me last night,” she continued, “tonight it’s your turn.”

I didn’t say anything, or move either.

“Take all your clothes off and leave them there,” she said, pausing to take a sip, “then come here and massage me for a while,” the last phrase coming out in a hoarse whisper. She turned to face forward as she finished speaking, and raised her haunches showing me exactly where she wanted to be rubbed.

I dropped my clothes to the floor. It wasn’t long before I was naked as a jaybird. Strangely, as I approached the bed, my pole wobbling awkwardly before me, I actually thought to look for the remote, still thinking to spare my invalid father this vicarious abuse, but it was nowhere to be seen. Only when I mounted the bed behind my mother did I spy the tube of lubricant laying between her legs, pointing right at the crevice between her shaved pussy lips mashed against the covers.

Mom turned back to look me in the eye again, raising her ass from the bed, accenting the rise from the small of her back up the slope of her buttocks to the crests of her cheeks. She twisted her ass forward and back, presenting the full arc of her crack.

“Massage it for me, baby,” Mom whispered loudly, her eyes dropping to my hard cock. “You won’t regret it.”

I picked up the tube, already open and ready to use, and squeezed the slippery goo out, a little cone on each cheek, and then a trail down the middle of her crack, stem to stern. As my fingers spread over her butt, and carved their way down through her split, Mom cooed her appreciation.

“Ohhhhhh, it’s been so long since you’ve done that.” Her head was twisted around again. She watched me as I caressed her lovely ass, working the slippery stuff all around, only turning away for a quick sip of wine before turning back to watch, blowing me a kiss every time I looked up into her eyes which held mine steadily until I looked away. Every once in awhile, she would arch her back, thrusting her anal opening up toward me.

“Oh yeah, like that,” she would purr.

Soon, she finished her wine and tossed the glass off the side of the bed, laying forward onto her tits, her hands stretching out to clutch the covers as I circled her softened butt and pushed my finger just inside for the first time.

“Oh yeah, baby,” she rasped, “do you remember fucking it?” She moved it then, in a little circle on my partly embedded finger.

“Take your time, baby,” she whispered, anticipating my urge to shove my cock inside her as I pushed my finger all the way in. “Work it open so it’s wide for you.”

Minutes later, with two fingers inside, she started making the little noises, whimpers and moans, she knew would drive me nuts. But each time I pulled my fingers out to bring my cock near, she urged to continue with my fingers, twisting her butt away.

“Open me up more for you, baby. Make me bigger, for your cock. Ohhhhhh, yeah, unnghhh, yeah.”

She kept teasing me like that until finally, when her hole was big enough that I could see inside, I moved up, straddled her open legs, pressed down on the small of her back to hold her still, aimed my cock at her entrance and shoved it inside.

“Oh Dave, fuck it, fuck it for me. Fuck me with your cock,” she wailed out loud. “Fuck my ass,” she grunted as I pushed all the way in.

Her grunts and moans drove me to distraction as I worked in and out of her ass. God how I loved being in her this way. She really knew how to maximize the value of a treat. I would have let people slice my arms off for five minutes of this. It’s amazing how the sounds a woman makes in reaction to something you do is just as exciting as the feel of her, sometimes even more so. I’m sure that some of my mother’s soft sounds were not all involuntary but they seemed to be completely prompted by my actions. She wasn’t loud and phony, like so many porno videos. It was probably the softness and unexpected occurrence, even just a sudden sharp intake of breath, that make it so real and exhilarating. My mother knew that fucking wasn’t just working my cock, it was about working my mind, and she’d been doing that for hours.

Is it any wonder that after I exploded, unloading my cum inside her bum, that I kept thrusting, kept humping her butt. I didn’t care if my father had to watch me pummel her behind, had to see me grind my cock in her, lifting her head, demanding that she beg me for it, that she plead for me to unload in her again.

And she did. My wonderful, sexy mother did. She begged me, pleaded, moaned and thrust her ass back for more of my cock, beseeching me to spray my jism all over her bottom. Can I to that, I thought, in the eyes of my father? Yes, I thought, I can, and did. I pulled out and covered her slippery cheeks with my goo, yelling, “Muuuummmm!”

Mom was still in bed the next morning, waiting for me to wake up. I felt as if I’d just woken from an erotic dream, of legs, soft eyes and smiles, and painted toes. Mom was watching me with those soft eyes, and that soft smile, kissing my lips.

“It’s about time lazybones,” she whispered, just as I realized I was very horny, and very hard, stiff to the point of breaking, because my mother, my dear sexy mother, was pulling on my dick, and she must have been doing it for some time, because I was about to burst.

She ducked under the covers and I instantly felt her warm, wet mouth envelop my sensitive, tingling cock. One, two, three, four seconds, then whump, whump, whump, my cock detonated in her mouth as I convulsed over her head. She pulled up when I stopped, licked her lips and laughed, a bright tinkly laugh.

“I love it,” she said, “when you look after me when I’m sick. I just love it.”

Mom jumped out of bed then and headed for the shower.

I love it too, I thought.

I felt guilty that morning, remembering what I’d told Mary, that my mother was losing interest in me and had probably always been more interested in the illicit nature of our relationship than me specifically. But as the morning wore on and I remembered the remotely controlled video feed to Dad’s TV, and my strange dream memories, the more my guilt melted away. My mother had a strange need, and I don’t think I or any single person could fill it for long.

I took my lunch in the study and found a catch-up from Kevin (Chapter 10).

Hello. Kevin here again with more about my mother and I, and my brother Matt. I was eager to keep the pressure on my mom after that beautiful afternoon in the country when I caressed her legs for so long, lulling her into acquiescence, allowing me to touch all around her panties, finally surprising her by covering her mound with my mouth. I’d humped against her after that, in my shorts. Strangely, she hadn’t been overly upset about either of those two events. Flustered, yes, but still talking to me. That changed when I pulled her hand onto my cock. She’d run to the car then and remained quiet and distant all the way home.

So the very next day, I made sure to help her do the dishes, though I normally only helped on the weekend. But she wouldn’t allow me my usual brushes against her skirt or my hand on her waist. Nothing, nada. She was cold.