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Finally home after work, there was no discussion or suggestive comments by Mom that evening because about an hour before quitting time, the boss informed my crew to expect some voluntary overtime, and he knew that I would not turn down the extra money. A late arrival at home reduced supper to a sandwich followed by a shower. Head on my pillow, Mom’s words to me the previous morning, “We need to talk,” navigated my waning imagination to a serious-minded sit-down with my mom in which she would set rules and limitations about our newfound morning activity. Minutes later, sleep.
My slumber must have muted my dad’s morning bathroom racket because I awakened to Mom’s voice and a few squeezes on my calf which were quickly followed by her folding the sheet and blanket off of me toward the foot of the bed.
The same length of her short slip the previous morning, the hemline of her loose-fitting green and white robe, her college colors, exposed that part of her that I was eager to see and touch the most. The top half of the robe disclosed no buttons, and even a drowsy morning eye could detect that Mom had not concerned herself with panties or brassiere.
Standing beside my bed and turning off my alarm clock before it announced the morning, Mom looked down with a delightful expression on her face and questioned, “No underwear last night? I get to see you soft? Mommy will take care of that!” When the sheet had passed across my exposed cock and I partially arose to get out of bed, her left hand instantly applied downward pressure to my chest.
“We still need to talk but stay there. I want to do this,” she said, accentuating the word “want.”
My gaze fastened to her unprotected pubic hair while my right hand sprinted downward to indulge my now hardening sex meat, but she blocked it. House robes were not supposed to be that short, which prompted my original intent to let her watch another one of my performances.
“I want to do this,” she repeated. “Mommy wants you soft so I can make you hard, and Mommy has wanted to play with this weenie for a long time.”
Weenie? Damn, I hadn’t heard her say that word since before primary academy.
Unfettered, her eyes were not looking at mine but focused on my exposed cock now embraced by her curled, active fingers. Mom slowly fondled my boner, and it grew while I reached to feel and caress her soft thighs that helped frame the profound circumference of her pussy. I did not pick up on the expressions “camel toe” and “puffy pussy” until years later. Mom’s enticing legs were still not far enough apart to allow me full access to her most secluded womanhood.
My beautiful mother did not stroke me up and down as I was wont. Instead of perpendicular to my torso, she pointed my cock almost parallel toward my chest to, I assume, get a better view and touch of my accompanying testicles, or maybe it could have been as simple as, she liked it that way. I felt her hand around my rod as well as her fingers touching my stomach as she pumped me. She seemed fascinated with some form of touching and pleasing my entire package.
The morning event was not all about me. Mom’s legs were stunning. A 37-year-old woman’s shapely legs embrace a different perspective when a man is granted the privilege of looking up those legs and seeing his objective, his woman’s sex. Brown hair, full but not long, covered her slit.
“Touch,” she whispered, as she guided my fingers to her bush, “but not inside yet.” The added “yet” instilled hope in my desires, but I was content to follow her instructions.
“Does my hand around your cock feel better than your hand around it?” she asked, as Mom continued to stroke my cock, her fingers intermittently grazing over my ball sack.
“Yes. I love this,” was all I could come up with.
“Say ‘Yes, Mommy.’ Call me Mommy,” she murmured.
“Yes, Mommy. I love this,” I quickly responded, “Your hand-fucking is the best.”
“I still like watching you do it, and I want more of that too,” she said without interrupting her attention to my cock.
Mom then instructed me to talk to her, to tell her exactly what I was feeling, and she added, “I love watching you cum. You are so grown up.”
Those words launched a wave of pleasure straight to my sack. Mom had been telling me about how grown up I was long before my graduation. My knowledge of that made me feel confident around her, in the classroom, and with my occasional girlfriends, but now, feeling her skilled hands and seeing her focused on my solid piece of meat, the term “grown up” had a richer meaning.
I interpreted her request for me to talk as a clear path to talk about sex. I began to talk about giving her the same type of pleasure but using expressions like “bush,” “fuck your pussy,” and “finger fucking.” She was not offended by that language but smiled when I expressed those words.
I had previously considered going down on the only girl I had ever engaged in sex with, but it never materialized. Some of the photos in my buddies’ magazines did not omit pictures of young men with thick, long cocks güvenilir bahis and tongues that busied themselves with muff diving. A few times I even got excited looking at those hard dicks, but I never stepped in that direction.
“Does your pussy like tongue?” I asked. Mom did not answer, but she kept smiling, her strokes became faster, and her left hand moved to her pudgy sex box, brushing aside my hand and covering her slit. Mom’s legs parted more, and her index and middle fingers became busy rubbing her pussy, then sliding inside and reappearing, side-to-side repetitiously across her wet pussy lips. That motion and her verbal reaction to my words sent me into orgasm with my eyes locked on her wanton fingers dancing around and inside her vagina, not noticing where my cum was landing. The sex sounds her fingers made predicted her soon-to-arrive orgasm.
“Oh fuck” were Mom’s words when she bent over my stomach, her tits smothering what was left of my rigid penis, while her left hand still moved over and around her vagina to facilitate the last remnant of her utter satisfaction. She lay there, still, for a few seconds with no concern about the warmth or wetness of my sperm sandwiched between her and my stomach.
“Like doing my weenie?” I asked, smiling and remembering her using that word.
In a soft voice her reply and laughter were clear, “Yes, I like your weenie. You know I do, but I love your cock much better now that my Baby is grown up.”
After we visited our respective bathrooms and readied for work, Mom met me in the kitchen sitting at the dinette, coffee ready. She took honey with her coffee, and it would later become one of my favorite coffee ingredients when I did not take it black.
Mom talked first and explained that she had raised my sister’s pay after changing Sister’s work hours. Mom co-owned the small business where they both worked. I began to understand this move. Leaving for work before my dad, my sister’s earlier morning departure would give more play time for Mom and me.
“Tomorrow morning, these,” she motioned, her hand curling toward the white blouse that covered her breasts. “But we still need to talk. I love you.”
“I love you, Mom.”
After that short exchange, Mom raised her finger, pointed toward her lips, and the tip of her finger touched them twice. Message understood, I got up, bent over her, and we kissed, long, full, and our tongues played unrestrained.
“Get to work, young man. Hey! Listen. To answer your question, yes, I would like some tongue between my legs. It would be my first time. Shut the door on the way out, please.”
Because my sister now left for work earlier than anyone else, she arrived home first in the afternoon, then Mom, Dad, and me in no certain order. The point is that any available time for Mom and me to be alone in the afternoons or evenings was rare; even then it was likely only a few seconds or minutes at the most. Still, Mom had become physically closer in the house touching, squeezing my arm, letting her knee linger against my leg under the table, sitting a little closer to me on the couch, or tugging a belt-loop on my jeans to pull me closer to a cabinet or the fridge or a door.
A short hallway led to the garage, and if she needed something in the garage where she had stocked a spacious walk-in pantry, she told me to get it, but each time she followed behind me under the guise of showing me what to bring up.
While in the pantry, Mom and I never wasted a moment to exchange quick but full kisses. Our hands were always busy in silence because on the other side of the plywood pantry wall, Dad was regularly occupied working on something.
Friday morning, and our mutually satisfying activity, more gratifying each morning, was a week in progress. Seconds after awakening by Dad’s morning bathroom routine, the predictable thoughts fixated on my mom’s bedroom entrance, and my cock and balls began their inevitable male reaction to that line of thought. After a few minutes, my door did not open, so I rolled off the bed, slipped on a t-shirt, and stepped into an empty hallway illuminated only by the dim sunlight from my bedroom window.
I had not heard Mom enter the master bathroom nor were there any sounds emanating from it. That notwithstanding, at the same time she stepped out of the bathroom smiling at my exposed hardness jutting out from the bottom of my t-shirt. She reached up to cover but not touch her unclothed breasts, and winked. I do not recall ever seeing my mother wink before. About four feet away and lowering her hands, Mom’s smile did not dissipate: perfect teeth, what I would gage as medium but full breasts, pert, hard nipples slightly longer than I imagined, no detectable pudginess in her stomach, a pleasing waist that highlighted even her pajama-covered hips, but the thin, pink pajama bottoms prohibited any further visual journey.
Speechless, probably because of my level of sexual experience, I returned her smile.
“I love your dad. You know that,” she seriously whispered, never blinking or diverting her eyes from türkçe bahis mine. “He was a little better before. I don’t know what happened. What he and I do in there every Sunday afternoon,” pointing toward their bedroom, “there’s no playtime for me. He feels me. He’s on top. His boxers still on. He finishes, disappears in the bathroom, then the garage.”
I sensed that Mom had just related to me the short version of their Sunday afternoon bedroom events, but she did not convey these personal details to me in a “poor-me” tone. She had moved closer as if intending to engage in tête-à-tête, but there was no break in her words. The clarity in her testimony sought intimacy, not solace. That clarity was confirmed when her breasts now touched my t-shirt, and she reached down to encompass my cock, pulling back the foreskin to uncover its head, looking at it.
“I need to feel this, to look at it. You are so grown,” she reminded me while feeling my sack.
As she continued to stroke, I removed my t-shirt and received the full gift of skin-to-skin contact with the extended, hard points of her nipples, then the warmth and softness of her full breasts when she moved even closer. We stood there, kissing, tongues competing while my mom afforded me the privilege of touching, feeling her boobs, even holding my hand and guiding it down inside her pajama bottoms to discover the soft, dew-covered flower between her legs, making sure that I had no difficulty feeling.
“Your bed. Right now!” she managed to get out without breaking our kiss.
Mom’s pajama bottoms were off on the floor in the hall before I lobbed my t-shirt to the foot of my bed. Our hands and tongues behaved as if they were on a long-awaited touch and taste tour. Her nipples, now fully extended, goaded me to kiss, lick, and suck them. She and I admired her nipples at the same time, then Mom proudly caressed her breasts with both hands, offering them to me.
“Nice, don’t you agree? Go ahead. They’re yours, they need your gentle attention badly.”
I easily reciprocated by holding her breasts while teasing her hardened nipples with the tips of my thumbs. Her perky nipples seemingly became even harder. Both of her hands then went into busy mode, one around my cock and the other softly around my neck guiding me to her face, lips, nipples, and neck.
Her “playtime,” as she phrased it, continued slowly and settled in place. Ever cognizant of the exigencies of time on a workday, Mom hastened the strokes of my cock and whispered, “You first. Lie back.”
In the bed and on her knees, she looked down, beating my meat, caressing my balls with the other hand, occasionally moving her hand from my sack to rub her pussy with those same fingers, and smiling through the entire occasion. Bending over, she kissed my stomach, then became the first to kiss my shaft. As much as I anticipated, she did not kiss or lick the head of my cock or take it into her mouth. Still, that, plus the accumulation of our morning activity were enough to trigger my climax. I vowed to learn how to put my own orgasm on the back burner and to let my mom have even more fun. This was too good!
With warm drops and strings of cum from my navel to my chest, she smiled even more, and I ended my few moments of carnal pleasure with, “Mom!” She then grabbed the t-shirt from the foot of my bed and quickly dried me, and within seconds she was on her back, legs narrowly apart, pulling my right hand toward her pleasure nest. She stopped between kisses to insist, “You do me now.”
My “doing her” was a pleasure but not time-consuming. I think that Mom must have been ready when I caressed her love box in the hallway, and during our playtime in the bed, she continually touched or rubbed her pussy. I liked watching her pleasure herself, and I relished the feeling of her growing climax, the firm little nub near the top of her pussy, the increased wetness beneath my hand with the two fingers that she insisted on, and the now expected, “Oh, fuck! I needed that. I wanted you to play with my pussy. I needed it in the hallway, and I do need this,” she softly said to me with her fingers toying around my rod.
With one exception, my first full exploration of my mother’s beautiful body was uninhibited: That exception was her words to me after we were both on the bed that morning: “Play, but no fucking this morning. Later. I’ll tell you.”
My room became our morning sexual playground. There was no discussion about incest or the taboo of me being her son or her being my mom. It simply never came up.
Perhaps narcissistic, my consideration for Dad’s feelings was absent each time Mom pumped my cock or made the last few strokes before my orgasmic explosion, nor did I imagine what he might think if he knew about me feeling and kissing Mom’s tits, tonguing her nipples, or guiding my fingers over, around, and inside her saturated pussy when she approached her climax predictably accompanied by the expression “Oh, fuck!”
We had no time for coffee or breakfast that morning.
The following day, Saturday, was half-day work schedule güvenilir bahis siteleri as usual. After making up for a skipped shower the night before and getting ready for work, I met Mom in the kitchen drinking coffee wearing her long black robe. As soon as she turned to hand me a cup, I noticed that her opened robe revealed crimson panties along with other captivating features. Setting the cup on the dinette table, her free hand slipped around my neck, pulling me to her and Mom saying, “I have plenty of these for you,” just before kissing me the same way we had kissed in the hallway the previous morning.
Breaking the kiss, she informed me, “your dad is in town picking up more shelving for the garage, and Sister did a sleepover at her friend’s after a late night out.” While telling me this, Mom’s right hand busied itself unbuckling my belt, unzipping my jeans, and tugging out my cock.
“Ever do this in the kitchen when Mommy wasn’t here?” she asked, and before I could answer, Mom’s pumping motion had already increased and primed me to respond. “Yes, I have, Mommy, but you doing it feels a lot better.” She had previously used the word “Mommy” repeatedly, and I had noticed, for whatever reason, it brightened her eyes and urged her on.
My fingers eased inside her robe and lightly circled her nipples while she jerked me off. Mom stopped stroking, bent down, and kissed the shaft of my cock like she had done before, but a longer, wetter kiss, sucking the side of my shaft, she wet the tips of her fingers and let them tease the helmet of my cock.
“You like?” she asked when straightening up. “Yes, as much as you like,” I responded, and Mom hastened the pace of stroking me. “More next time, Sweetie,” she injected, then smothered me with another tongue kiss.
That and her next words, “Mommy is milking you. Cum for Mommy” set off my orgasm.
“It’s just us, and Mommy wants to see your big guy shoot,” she whispered while I kept feeling her nipples, getting in a kiss every few pumps.
A few more strokes and Mom reached for a dishtowel on the counter, smothered every drop of my warm load, and smiled the entire time, showing that she was not only pleased with her achievement but clearly enjoyed it. I noticed her smelling the dishtowel, twice, before tossing it into the sink.
Without zipping me, Mom carefully pushed me into a dinette chair, shoved a cup of coffee in front of me, and sat down across the table as if everything that just happened was simply routine.
“I love kissing my man down there,” she informed me while swishing her toes back and forth under the table over my still exposed cock. The dinette table in the nook was a four-seater and far from large enough to prohibit my mom’s foot play.
Seeing the smile on my face and without waiting for me to comment, Mom added, “Better next time. You will like.”
My thoughts did not deviate from her words as I left for work, and those thoughts continued during the remainder of my short weekend shift that morning. Most of the work was routine prep work for the following week. I also thought about how and when I would return the special pleasure that she had given me in the kitchen, guessing that she would have no objections. Although I had thought about it, I never attempted to go down on the only girl with whom I had been sexually involved, but I knew about oral sex and had fantasized about it a lot while beating my meat. I was confident that Mom would have no reservations.
Getting off work shortly after one o’clock and arriving home, I noticed Dad installing the new shelving in the garage when I returned from work and pulled into the driveway. We talked for a while, and I offered to help him. He told me he was almost finished, but that Mom was upset and that he would talk later. I made my way inside to find Mom in silent tears sitting at the dinette. She wasn’t boohooing, but it was evident that she was emotionally troubled.
“Not right now” was all she said to me when I asked her what was wrong.
Showered and a change of clothes, I looked forward to some time out with a couple of my close friends at the shooting range followed by barbecued ribs on the river where one of them lived. Both buddies had made plans to attend a local junior college at summer’s end, but because the job I had landed after graduation paid so well, my plans were different.
After an unusually early arrival home Saturday evening, I heard Mom and Dad talking in the den. Soon after, Dad approached me in the kitchen and handed me a letter which explained why Mom had been disturbed earlier that day after I had gotten off work. The letter’s return address, Selective Service System. I had a pretty good feeling what was on the inside but did not want to believe it.
“Greetings: You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States,” etc.
I had never been a newshound but was mindful then that Vietnam was still a serious fight in the Far East in the early 1970’s. Disheartened but not shocked, I was somewhat surprised by the date of the letter and what I determined an early report date to the induction center, this Thursday. It was then that I noticed the date of the letter, two weeks earlier. I had to wonder if Dad had been holding back what he also knew was a military draft notice.
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