By the way her head jerked up in surprise at the sound of my voice she hadn't heard me come up the stairs but the more intriguing response was the way her hand quickly brushed over the pile of pictures strewn around her on the bed, pulling some underneath her arm.
"Scott You scared the hell out of me," she cried, pulling a pillow over the pictures she had just swept to her side.
"Nothing," Mom added as I approached her bed. "Just looking at some old pictures."
Her blushing face made me even more curious about the pictures she was hiding.
"Yeah?"
My expression subtly requested more information. Mom was wearing a soft plaid shirt over a loose white t-shirt tucked into faded and threadbare blue jeans and that prodded me to verbalize my curiosity.
"Looking at pictures of your old school friend, what's her name — Jena?"
"She wasn't a school friend. We met each other at the commune."
"Oh, yeah, in Hippieville," I teased, reaching across Mom's legs toward the pillow hiding the pictures.
Mom leaned back, dropping her elbow to block my outstretched fingers.
"You don't need to see your mother in the 'olden' days," she laughed.
"Come on, Mom. Why are you so weird about your old pictures? Afraid to let your son see you stoned?"
"No. It's just that it was a different world. You kids just laugh at it because you don't understand what times were like then."
Mom stretched flat on the bed, her hand bending around to grasp my wrist. As she looked down to make sure no embarrassing pictures had come loose, my eyes strayed to the t-shirt exposed by the widening lapels of her shirt. Mom's breasts, unencumbered by the usual bra, pressed against the thin white material, especially where the left nipple threatened to poke through.
I had never seen Mom braless and was captivated by her usually unnoticeable tits. They sagged lower on her chest than they did when encapsulated within their normal prison but were all the more exciting for it, two bulging globes of surprising firmness straining to be free. I moved my hand in a circle on the bed in a fake attempt to grab some photos but I was really just trying to prolong the opportunity to examine Mom's assets unobserved.
"Hey," Mom cried, trying to still my hand and twisting her hip into the bed to cover the pictures.
Her breasts slumped sideways toward the mattress as she twisted away from me, displaying their full round bottoms and dragging her nipples in noticeable arc across the t-shirt. I sat down on the edge of the bed and Mom twisted all the way onto her side, dragging my forearm under her hip. She pushed back as she hunched over, pressing her bottom against my hip. I flexed my fingers as if grasping for pictures and Mom yanked my wrist up toward her into the bottom of her breasts.
"Ok, ok. I won't," I pleaded.
"Let go then. Open your hand."
"Just show me one picture of you and your friends."
"No."
"Of your friends, then." I let my hand open and close, rubbing between the bottoms of her breasts.
"Alright, but just one."
"Ok."
"Get off the bed first."
"Do you promise?" I sought assurance, flexing my fingers again.
"Yes."
"Ok." Mom let go and I stood, pulling my hand away.
Mom searched around for a minute, looking at several pictures covertly, then turned with one in her hand. She held up a photo of an attractive girl in her early twenties wearing a long, hippyish (granny?) dress, with her long, dark brown hair tied into a single braid. She clearly wasn't wearing a bra and, although there wasn't much skin showing, the picture made me want to be there, in that time, with that young woman rather than in the late nineties. She exuded a quiet, earthy sexuality that made me want to impregnate her.
"Nice, wasn't she?" Mom teased, the tinkle in her voice obviously amused by my sudden rapture.
I couldn't respond, my attention was riveted on the picture, at the bulge of her full breasts above a disproportionately narrow waist. Were those pinpoints her nipples? Mom's tinkle turned into a full-throated laugh.
"All the guys reacted like that to Jena but she she couldn't have cared less. She liked hanging out with the girls more."
"Was she a lesbian?" I asked, not quite able to believe this perfect receptacle would shun the attentions of those so eager to fill her needs.
"No," Mom laughed. "But we did wonder sometimes. All the guys wanted to hook up with her but she wouldn't do anything unless it was in a group."
I looked at my mother. "You were in orgies?"
Mom grabbed the picture out of my hand. "None of your business," she snapped good naturedly. "and quit trying to twist my words. Away you go now." She shooed me away with her hand.
"You can tell me, Mom. I'm almost twenty-one," I pleaded.
"It's still none of your business. Anyway, Jena was the wild one."
"Awww, Mom. You can tell me." Somehow, I didn't believe her denial.
"No way. Now away you go. I have to put these away and change before your father gets home. He hated hippies."
"You knew Dad when you were in the commune?" That really did stretch the imagination. I pictured him surrounded by hippies, calculator on his belt.
"No. I met him after. Now go away."
I let Mom push me toward the door and made a huge effort not to turn around. I didn't want to make her suspicious so she wouldn't hide the pictures too well. I wanted to have my own look at what she was hiding.
- - - - - - - - - -
I rushed home from work early the next day to look for the pictures. They weren't that easy to find but I eventually succeeded. There were more of Jena, almost always in long xxx. She still looked awesome but there were several of Mom that caught my eye even more. Her hair was longer and blonder than its current light brown broken by a few wisps of grey, but that wasn't what caught my attention.
Unlike Jena, Mom seemed to favor xxx that rode high above her knees, displaying a gorgeous set of legs. Not that her legs were bad now, they were just more lean and angular, not as soft and feminine as in the pictures.
Mom's other preferred mode of dress seemed to be the tattered jeans and t-shirts she sometimes donned to knock around the house when Dad wasn't home. In the pictures, her breasts always seemed to be unencumbered. What surprised me was the way they hung down and jutted out in about the same position as they had the day before. Mom's legs may have aged but, surprisingly, her breasts seemed to be the about same.
My cock stirred as I stared at the t-shirt pictures. A strange feeling spread through my stomach and chest and my fingers trembled as my eyes bored into the photos. In my mind, I imagined her breasts jostling below her youthful smile as she walked, hair dancing over her chest but unable to conceal the wayward life within.
One picture was particularly intriguing. Mom was lying on the ground, arms raised to adjust a flower in her hair, pulling her t-shirt up to expose her belly and a sprinkle of tiny blonde hairs glinting in the bright sunlight. The gentle pout of her tummy gradually descended into her jeans which, although tight around her hips, were loose enough around her narrow waist to leave a substantial gap. Unlike the jeans girls wore today which dipped low in front, Mom's rode high on the waist and were so loose there it seemed you could put a hand inside without touching skin or jeans.
I stiffened into full hardness on that thought, my fingers tingling from the imaginary sensation of sliding my hand past Mom's pouting belly and down the front of her silky panties. I groaned and covered my crotch with my free hand, palm fitting over my stiff cock and fingers wrapping under my tightening balls.
The sound of the front door jerked me out of my reverie. I scrambled to put the pictures back into the drawer where I'd found them. I pushed the drawer closed but it didn't go all the way. I hesitated, then realized I didn't have time to shove it home; Mom's footsteps were already climbing the stairs. I had to get out, now
I rushed to Mom's bedroom door and just managed to bolt down the hall and disappear into my room before Mom reached the middle landing and turned to climb the final four steps to the hallway. She walked into her room, humming some old seventies song. I stood near my open door, listening intently for any sign that Mom had discovered my intrusion or my presence upstairs but all I heard was the sound of whispering cloth. Mom was getting undressed. Hadn't she seen my Jeep parked in front of the neighbor's house?
My cock, which had shriveled in fear when I heard Mom close the door, now reasserted itself. I imagined Mom's skirt falling to the floor, exposing a tiny set of panties I knew she would never wear, and watching the flex of her shoulders as her blouse was unbuttoned. Jesus. I felt like slapping myself. What a sick fuck, getting hard imagining my own mother undressing.
But I didn't slap myself. Instead, I stepped stealthily into the hall. Slowly, trying desperately to control my ragged breathing, I stole toward her room. The door was open and I knew that the mirror on the dresser against the far wall would afford me a view back toward the bathroom ensuite where Mom would almost assuredly be removing her clothes and dropping them onto the bed. I pressed close to the wall and inched my way forward until I could lean out and peek into Mom's room.
I sucked in my breath. There, through the mirror, stood Mom with her back to me. She had removed her blouse, unzipped the top of her skirt, and her arms were now reaching up to the back of her bra. As I watched, her hands parted, pulling the bra around the front and sliding the straps down her arms. Mom turned and threw the bra onto the bed, her breasts jutting out in magnificent profile, slinging down and out, nipples riding high on the upper crests of her jiggling tits. There were more awesome than my imagination had allowed.
Mom stepped toward the bed letting her skirt fall as she moved and stooping as she stepped out of it before laying it on the bed beside her blouse. She turned away, took two steps toward the open bathroom door, then paused. Pushing her panties down her legs, Mom bent to pull them off her feet and flung them over her head in the general direction of the bed. As she walked into the bathroom, her bare cheeks tick-tocked up and down, sagging slightly like her tits though her youthful pictures had displayed a very tight little derriere. My cock surged as I imagined it prying apart those saucy globes. I groaned aloud but thankfully Mom had disappeared through the door. The shower started.
Quickly, I made my way to the main bathroom across the hall from my room. My cock was out of my jeans and I was already pumping it by the time I entered. I barely managed four tugs before spraying all over the toilet. Mom's shower was still running by the time I cleaned up and flushed my mess away. I slipped out of the house and hung around down the street at the park until I knew Dad would be home. I couldn't stay with Mom alone, afraid my guilt was written all over my face.
- - - - - - - - - -
Dinner was uneventful. I helped Mom clean up the kitchen while Dad watched the news, as usual. I was still a little uncomfortable even though Mom had given no sign that she was aware of me being home while she had undressed in her room, with the door open. We watched TV for another hour and then Dad, as regular as clockwork, brewed a pot of green Japanese twig tea and wandered upstairs to his study, the room at the far end of the hall that had been converted from a bedroom after no more children arrived after me. He would return an hour later for a refill before disappearing upstairs for the night. This had been his ritual ever since I could remember. No wonder Mom sometimes spent hours looking through old pictures, dreaming of her glory days.
As soon as Dad disappeared, Mom spoke, her words making me immediately nervous.
"Scott, were you home earlier today?"
I looked up, trying not to look guilty as I held Mom's gaze.
"Uh, yeah. I got off work early and got changed before going out."
"Were you looking for my pictures?"
"No." I could see in her face she knew I was lying. I could always fool my Dad but Mom was a different story.
"Scott."
"Yeah," I admitted, looking down. "I just wanted to see what you used to look like." Hoping to throw her off the real reason for my guilty demeanor, I added, "And that girl that was your best friend, Jena."
"Is that all? Just pictures of me and Jena?"
Mom's apparent worry puzzled me. Were there more interesting pictures to see? Nude ones? Maybe even an orgy?
"Yeah. You looked pretty awesome back then, Mom."
Mom's face softened in relief and she smiled.
"Back then, in the olden days?" she chuckled.
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, I think I do."
Her smile broadened and I blushed.
"Will you promise not to look at my pictures if I let you see some?"
"Sure. But only if you don't hide all the good ones, the ones that show what it was really like to live back then."
Mom laughed. "Alright, I'll get some that will show you what it was like. You stay put. Don't come upstairs."
I called out to Mom's retreating back, "And tell me some stories about what it was like, too."
Mom didn't answer. She returned fifteen minutes later with a box of pictures and a blanket draped over her arm. She had changed into her tattered old jeans and a white t-shirt, her normal picture browsing garb. She sat down on the floor in front of the couch at the far end and pushed the box under the end table. Stacking a couple of cushions behind her, she leaned back against the couch and motioned for me to sit next to her. As I did, she used the remote to select one of the movie channels, then spread the blanket over her legs instead of using it to spread the pictures on as I expected. The blanket was folded back double down to her knees.
"When Dad comes downstairs, just tell him we're watching a movie. He doesn't like me looking at these old pictures."
I nodded my agreement, realizing the folded back blanket could be quickly pulled up to cover the t-shirt and jeans, the hippy-ware that Dad hated so much.
Mom reached around to grab a handful of pictures. I wasn't disappointed. It was summer and there were young guys and girls everywhere, frolicking around the edge of a small lake, mostly wearing shorts and t-shirts, or jeans and xxx. Soon, there were pictures of girls soaked from splashing around in the lake, then some without tops, followed by most of the girls going topless. Full nudity began to appear.
Mom matter-of-factly named the people in each picture, holding some for quite a while as she struggled to remember their names, several times giving up with a shrug and going on to the next picture. She talked about life on the commune as she flipped the photos, honoring her commitment to me.
Some pictures she passed over quickly, especially the ones she was in, but not always. I grabbed her arm to get a better look. Strangely, she allowed that with most of the ones she was in but not some others. I couldn't see why but didn't really care because Mom was letting me look at pictures of her old friends, including herself, in partial states of undress. There was even one, which she passed by quickly, in which she and Jena were completely naked lying on the grass. Awesome.
But mostly, Mom didn't rush. I got her to go through that bunch again and this time she didn't scoot by the pic of her and Jena. I pretended to be scrutinizing her friend but Mom must have known I was taking a pretty hard look at her youthful charms too. I was surprised by her latitude.
"Not too shabby, huh?"
"Uh, yeah. She was pretty good looking," I stammered.
"I meant your mother. I can see you weren't completely ignoring me, or rather, the girl that I was."
"Yeah, Mom. Not too shabby at all," I replied, using her terminology.
"Uh, those were the days," Mom sighed. She held the picture closer and examined herself critically.
I grasped the edge of the picture and leaned in to look more closely myself, managing to brush the side of Mom's right breast with my wrist as I did. She didn't seem to notice, so I scraped my hand across her fleshy bulge several more times. It was thrilling to contact her breast which I knew was bare under the t-shirt.
"You haven't changed a bit," I laughed, making a joke of it.
"Yeah right," Mom elbowed my hand away.
Taking a last glance, she shuffled the picture under the pack and exposed the next one. It was a picture of her sitting between Jena and another girl. All of them were topless.
"Trish," Mom spoke her name quietly.
I grasped the edge of that picture too. Mom half-heartedly pushed me away but she was intent on the picture and didn't stop my hand from following when she pulled the picture back to her center. The edge of my pinky scraped over the top of her right breast. When my finger nudged her nipple, I froze, afraid she'd notice but reluctant to move away. When Mom looked about to move on, I asked about the new girl, managing several questions to prolong my stealthy caress. Finally, she shuffled that picture under the pack too.
"You haven't changed much, Mom," I said, honestly.
"That doesn't say much for me in my prime."
"You were the best looking girl there."
"Bullshit," Mom countered. "You saw the big boobs on Jena and Trish."
I was about to remark on the redeeming feature's of Mom's own, smaller assets but decided that silence would be prudent. Several more times I grabbed Mom's wrist to hold a picture longer and managing to brush my fingers against Mom's right breast on a few.
When Mom heard Dad moving upstairs, she quickly shoved the pictures out of sight under the end table and pulled the blanket up so it covered her completely from her feet to her shoulders. I got up and flopped back on the couch just before Dad came down, mug in hand, heading directly for the kitchen. A moment later he joined us, standing to one side and looking at the TV while he waited for the kettle to boil.
"Ghandi," he said, remarking on the movie we were supposedly watching.
I confess, that was the first time I noticed what was on. I nodded but kept my eyes on the TV, pretending to be absorbed by the movie. A few minutes later the kettle boiled and Dad disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a minute later with a full mug, the string from the teabab hanging over the rim. He paused before heading up the stairs.
"Are you going to xxx the whole movie?" he asked Mom.
"Prabably," she replied, then added, "but I might not make it to the end."
"Try not to wake me if you come up late," Dad said. He climbed the stairs slowly, trying not to spill the mug he had filled too full.
As soon as Dad turned at the landing, I pushed off the couch and sat beside Mom again.
"I should really get to bed," Mom said.
"No, let's look at more pictures. It's really interesting seeing what it was like."
"Yeah right," Mom responded. "You just want to look at all those girls with their tits hanging out."
I was shocked by Mom's reference and the fact she had pretty much nailed it on the head, except for the biggest part, that is, looking at pictures of her and touching the side of her breast. I couldn't have imagined Mom speaking like this before, but then, it was pretty far-fetched that she would be sitting next to me looking through pictures like this of herself and her friends. Did wearing her old 'outfit' somehow bring back the sense of freedom she experienced back then? Is that why she wore those clothes when she looked through her old pictures?
Mom relented. "Alright, for a little while longer, as long as you behave yourself."
A spike of fear struck my solar plexus but then I realized she couldn't be referring to my illicit brushes. If she had noticed them, she would have done something about it. She must have meant I shouldn't ogle the pictures so much.
As Mom was twisted around to get more pictures, I casually pulled the blanket so it fell into her lap, exposing her t-shirt and the charms underneath. Mom paid no mind and when she turned back, I was pleased to see that her breasts seemed to have swelled from the warmth of the blanket.
After a few more pictures, Mom grabbed my arm and swung it over her shoulder and snuggled closer to me. Soon, we had pictures strewn all around, secure in the knowledge that Dad wouldn't be coming downstairs again. One or the other of us would pick up a picture and both of us would hold it, our fingers pinching each side. This allowed me to brush Mom's breast regularly. I took to finding pictures lying on the floor on the far side of Mom where I had to lean across to get them, allowing a full, inadvertent forearm brush across her chest. My mouth was dry with fear the first time I did it, thinking it was pretty obvious but nevertheless proceeding, but when Mom didn't respond, I became quite cavalier.
Eventually, we stopped looking a pictures, or I should say, Mom did, and started watching the movie which was now more than halfway through. Mom slipped down on her pillows and turned toward me. With my arm on her shoulder, I pulled her closer and she cuddled into my side. After a while, I looked down and she seemed to be asleep, she wasn't watching the movie at all. I pulled her even closer and she twisted onto her side and hugged herself to my body, her loose breasts splaying apart, one on my chest and the other pressing into my side. We stayed like that until the end of the movie. I didn't try to touch Mom's breasts as I had no 'excuse' for such a touch. When the credits started to roll, Mom opened her eyes.
"Oh, gosh. I must have fallen asleep."
"Yup," I confirmed. "You were out for a while."
Mom got up onto her knees and then, facing me, she arched her back and stretched her arms high, pulling her t-shirt out of her jeans and exposing her tummy. There was definitely a large gap between her skin and the jeans. She held her pose in a long, yawning stretch, face turned up to the ceiling, inadvertently letting me examine her breasts at my leisure. I didn't quite manage to look away when she finally slumped forward, breasts bunching in front of my eyes, but Mom didn't see where I was looking, or at least pretended not to in order to avoid an embarrassing moment.
"I guess we better put these pictures away so Dad doesn't see them."
Mom began gathering the pictures up. I did too but was more interested in movement under her t-shirt.
"Why does Dad get so upset about these pictures, Mom?"
"He just does," Mom replied. She stopped and looked at me with furrowing brows. "You won't say anything to him will you?"
"No."
"Make sure you don't."
"I won't."
"Good boy."
Mom swung her knee over to straddle my legs and leaned down to kiss the top of my head, her breasts bumping against the front of my face. She probably didn't notice but I sure did.
"You really like looking at the pictures, don't you Mom?"
"Yes," she answered, picking up the last few photos. "They remind me of those times and that relaxes me, but it makes me sad too."
"You weren't sad tonight."
Mom paused and looked at me. "You're right. I think that was because I had someone to share them with."
"Why don't we look at them again tomorrow night," I suggested.
"Are you sure?" Mom asked, obviously pleased.
"Yeah. I like looking at them too."
"Ok, you're on."
- - - - - - - - -
I only worked a half shift the next day and it was one of Mom's days off; she only worked three days a week. When I came home, she was in the kitchen, making bread, wearing her t-shirt and jeans. I sat at one end of the kitchen table. A few minutes later, Mom put a large wooden pallet on the table and asked me to move. I complained.
"Come on, Scott. You're in the way. I need to knead the dough."
"Can't you do it on the counter?"
"No, it's too high and hard on my back."
"Well, do it here then. I don't mind."
"Alright, smarty pants."
Mom positioned the pallet close to me, plopped down a huge mass of dough, and began kneading, clearly trying to make me sufficiently uncomfortable to move. But I wasn't bugged. I watched her, or should I say, I watched my favorite new toys jostle about as Mom worked the dough. After a while, Mom realized I wasn't going to move and slowed to a steadier, less hurried pace. We started chatting about our respective days and then about her life on the commune. My steady observation of her now more gently moving breasts continued, unacknowledged. It was just part of the scene.
During one pause in the conversation, after Mom got another pile of dough, I said, "You're getting your t-shirt in the dough."
I reached under Mom's tummy and pushed the lower edge of her t-shirt up, pinching it in my fingers and keeping it off the dough. It was an outrageous thing to do but Mom just kept kneading the dough and we began talking again as if it was a perfectly natural, helpful thing for me to do. As Mom progressed, I gathered more and more of her t-shirt in my fist until it was held tight against her breasts, restricting their movement but emphasizing their outline. My hand was now moving back and forth with the movement of Mom's torso, and constantly bumping against the bottom of her breasts.
It was a marvelous experience. My hand kept bumping against the bottom swell of one or the other breast, but usually both, slipping a little between, while Mom and I kept talking as if nothing was amiss. I was a little sad when Mom finished that last pile of dough but was too excited to stay down for more than a moment. I followed Mom over to the counter, hardly conscious of the hardness in my jeans, and curled my arms around Mom's shoulders to hug her from behind. I was careful, however, to keep my hips back to avoid contact with Mom's behind.
"Are we going to look at pictures again tonight."
"If you like."
"I like." I let my arms fall a bit until they were lightly resting across the top of Mom's breasts.
"But make sure you don't mention it in front of your father."
"I promise I won't." I squeezed, pressing down on Mom's breasts, then let her go.
That night started just like the previous evening. Mom followed Dad upstairs and returned dressed in t-shirt and old jeans, a blanket draped over her arm. I had already stacked pillows against the front of the couch, some for her and a couple for me. Mom smiled and sat down beside me, wiggling about until she was comfortably settled in the pillows.
"You're going to get bored," she said, pulling the box of pictures out. "You're seen most of these."
"I won't get bored," I replied. "I have an idea. I'll pick a picture, and you'll tell me a story about it. Then it will all be new."
Mom's eyes danced. "That's a great idea. That's so cool."
"Keep the box hidden, in case Dad comes down," I suggested, bringing us closer in our mutual conspiracy. We both knew that, barring an emergency, that would never happen.
I switched the TV to a movie channel and then stretched across Mom and around the end of the couch to pick a picture out of the box. My arm pressed Mom's breasts tight against her chest as I rummaged around.
"Scott," Mom admonished me.
"Got one," I responded innocently, holding it in front for Mom to see.
Mom thought for a moment, then recounted a little escapade that went along with the picture. She seemed thrilled with this new game and was eager for me to pick another one. After that, I hid the picture, flipping it up at the last minute for her to see, saying she only had a few seconds to look at it before recounting a story. Mom liked that idea and I liked the idea of hiding the picture, which I did by pressing it down against the front of her shirt.
Three pictures later I made Mom close her eyes while she remembered and related each story. Not long after that I stopped just pressing the pictures into Mom's chest just below her neck and began resting it on the top of one of her boobs. And finally, I started holding the picture that way but held between thumb and index finger so when I pressed it to her breast, my palm hung below, lightly cupping her breast. Mom seemed unaware of this during the recounting of each tale and I, in my reverie, hardly heard a word she said, almost my entire brain focused on the tactile sensations emanating from my palm. I was sure Mom's breasts felt tighter, more firm, and was convinced her nipples were more prominent under the thin cotton of the t-shirt.
We were both startled at the sound of Dad's door opening upstairs. Mom flung the blanket over herself to hide her t-shirt and jeans and I, almost too late, managed to slide the picture I was holding, which I dropped in panic, under the couch. As usual, Dad walked straight into the kitchen, on a mission, without glancing our way.
"What are you watching tonight?" Dad asked, after exiting the kitchen to wait for the kettle to boil.
Mom looked confused.
"Bridge on the River Kwai," I answered.
Dad looked at Mom in surprise. "You're watching a war movie?" He seemed astonished.
"We're bonding," I replied for her. "Tomorrow I have to xxx a chick flick."
"Ah, yes. The perpetual give and take," Dad murmured.
He stood watching for a few minutes, then went in to make his tea when the kettle boiled. As soon as he disappeared, Mom grasped my hand under the blanket and squeezed, pulling it up onto her stomach, below her breasts. She looked at me and mouthed, 'Thank you.'
Suddenly she let go as Dad appeared through the doorway. My hand dropped a couple of inches onto Mom's stomach and slid down a little more before I checked its movement as Dad turned into the living room instead of going upstairs. He stood beside me watching the movie. The hair on my arms whan I realized that my hand had slid under the waistband of Mom's jeans and was now resting on her bare tummy. I dared not move in case I drew Dad's attention. Mom, rigid beside me, must have been experiencing a similar tension.
"I haven't seen this for years," Dad said, slowly settling on the couch beside me.
Oh, no. I held my hand as still as I could. Glancing down, I could see its vague form under the blanket. I moved it slightly lower to diminish its profile but that stretched it out further and I felt the tips of my fingers come into contact with the elastic edge of Mom's panties. My eyes strained sideways seeking Mom's reaction but she was still as stone.
Well, not quite, I could feel the rise and fall of her tummy as she breathed, and it seemed her breathing, restrained as it was, was no more normal than my own.
"I really like this part," Dad said.
I lowered my arm to further flatten my hand, stretching it deeper into Mom's jeans, past the waistband and onto the edge of a puffy rise.
"Yeah, this is really good," Dad whispered.
Mom wiggled, moving her shoulders higher against the back of the couch, trying to pinch the blanket that was threatening to fall down and possibly expose her taboo outfit. My fingers took advantage of this distraction, sliding deeper onto the puffy rise. I was cupping Mom's mound
Mom sucked in her breath. Though she was very tense, I could not detect any reaction on her part to indicate she thought this unfortunate turn of events was due to anything but her own movement to secure the blanket.
Foolishly putting this hypothesis to the test, I pressed my finger down with the slightest pressure, hoping it wouldn't be detected as a deliberate move. I eased the pressure, then reapplied, released and reapplied, then again, and again, all super slowly, as if the pulsing pressure was the result of Mom's own breathing. Indeed, her short, shallow breaths did produce a palpitating movment in her tummy, a faint pulse that was barely there, to be sure. Certainly not voluntary, but it was there nonetheless.
I almost gurgled in excitement and continued applying minute presses, faint but regular, and thrilled to the equally timid responses. I dared to nudge my longest finger to the side, slipping into a shallow, dampish groove. A harder press registered an equal reaction. I wiggled my finger ever so slightly on each subsequent press and, though this could hardly be conceived as natural, received a satisfyingly firmer upward press. Our presses and releases became constant and consistent and I almost forgot about my father until he suddenly stood up.
"Well, can't sit around watching TV all night. Some of us have work to do. Good night," he said, striding toward the stairs.
"Good night," I croaked.
Mom didn't reply. I turned tentatively toward her, afraid to meet her eyes. To my relief, they were closed tight. I pressed my finger down firmly. No reaction except for equally firm resistance. Again, I pressed down, and again, adding a little more wiggle. A stronger response. Down, and wiggle. Firmer push back.
Press, press, press. Push, push, push. Wiggle, dig, dig, wiggle, dig. Mom was breathing rapidly now and I was breathing harshly too. I pushed my hand deeper into Mom's crotch, cupping her firmly. There was no pretense now. I dug my finger rapidly in and out of that damp groove, dragging it in long rubs up and down. Mom was quivering under my touch and pushing up hard. She was gasping as loud as I. Suddenly, she tensed and pushed hard against my finger and I pressed it firmly down, keeping it hard against her straining mound. I turned toward her and started coming in my jeans as Mom vibrated against my hand, her damp panties partly folding over my insolent finger. Seconds later, she relaxed, collapsing into the pillows and I slumped against her. We lay like that for a minute or so before Mom moved to get up and I pulled away to make room.
"I think that's enough pictures for tonight," she said as she got up, avoiding my eyes.
"Yeah," I agreed. "I'm kind of tired too."
Mom picked up the box of pictures while I turned off the TV. We walked upstairs together, not talking, and not looking at each other. Mom went into her room and I walked past Dad's study, noting that the light still on under the door, and on to my room. I struggled to get to sleep, trying to understand what had just happened, worrying about what the next day would bring. I resolved to apologize to Mom as soon as I could.
- - - - - - - - - -
I couldn't get Mom alone the next day to say I was sorry. We all worked and she left with Dad. I tried to get off early to get home sooner but couldn't. Right after supper, Mom disappeared upstairs. I cleaned up the kitchen myself and then went upstairs to see her. Her bedroom door was closed. I was about to knock but chickened out. Instead, I went to my room and changed into an old t-shirt and some sweat pants, the closest get up I could think of to a hippyish outfit. I approached Mom's room. The door was open but she wasn't in her room. I proceeded downstairs and ran into Dad coming up the stairs. It was early for him to be on his way to his study. He was muttering to himself.
"Have you seen Mom?"
"Downstairs," he grumbled. "Better go xxx your chick flick, she's already starting it."
I stepped onto the landing and turned down the main flight of stairs. I could see Mom already stretched out in front of the couch, holding the remote. The living room was lit by a single lamp. Mom turned and smiled as I approached, adjusting the blanket over her legs.
"You looked relaxed," she observed my dress.
"Yeah. It's comfortable."
Her demeanor should have relaxed me but I started freaking out about what I had to say. Should I but say it now and get it over with? I'm so sorry Mom, I didn't mean to, blah, blah blah. I sat down next to her and turned to speak but my mouth was suddenly dry and I felt extremely nervous. I just sat there, looking at Mom as if about to speak, but no words came out.
"Well, are you going to pick a picture?"
"A picture?"
"Yes. A picture. Hellooooo."
"Oh, yeah. A picture." Relief flooded through me. "Yeah." I leaned over and around Mom, searching for the box under the table. I pulled a picture out and showed it to her without even looking at it first.
Mom laughed. "Oh, that one. It figures you'd pick it first."
She grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand to her chest, pressing the picture against her shirt and, without delay, began to tell a story about how the three girls had decided to get 'Donny'. I knew right away what the picture was. It was the one with Mom, Jena and that other girl sitting topless. I tried to turn the picture to look but Mom held it and my hand firmly against her shirt.
As Mom talked, I noticed she wasn't wearing the old t-shirt. She was wearing that old plaid shirt that had covered it that first day I found her sifting through the pictures on her bed. Rats. I couldn't see her breasts as well through the looser and thicker material. Oh well. I considered myself lucky, far luckier than I had expected to be this evening.
The story lasted much longer that the other's had and it dawned that this 'Donny' was a person of some importance, at least to the three girls and, judging by Mom's breathy voice, he still was. When she finished, I tried to peek in the box as I rummaged for the next picture, hoping to find one of 'Donny'.
"Hey no looking," Mom put her hand up to block my sight.
I picked a picture and Mom told me another story. A couple more followed. I was tired of this now. I wanted to do more than just brush her breasts and I couldn't see them very well anyway which made things worse because I was pretty sure she was naked under the shirt.
"Let's play a new game," I suggested.
"Like what?" Mom asked.
To be continued...
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