It Started With A Slip Of The Hand

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This story is my ode to the wonderful writer with the handle 'alwayswantedto', who, for reasons apparently medical, has taken down the entire stack of his marvelous stories that have been nothing short of magical, to say the very least. Suffice it to say I have read all the stories from the author. In the last couple of months, I felt a craving for a re-read of the author's works. While my favorite from his works is The Rambler series, but the one that I recently re-read is "It Started with a Slip of the Hand." Ideally, I wouldn't dare touch someone's work, but this here is, if I may say so, inspired by that story.

In the original, the main characters are from the Cooper family. Written from the point of view of Stanley, or Stan, an eighteen-year-old, who lives with his twin brother Gordon, or Gordie, and their mother (unnamed in the original story) and father, John. The story is written from Stanley's point of view.

Stan is the clumsier of the two, lagging a bit in academics and sports.

Gordie, on the other hand, excels in sports, is more affable, and considerably more self-confident, despite being built just the same as his twin brother. Gordie, though smart, flunked a class just to be with his girlfriend who's a year younger. Stan isn't great in academics either. Both have flunked a class each and were in their final year of high school.

Once, while taking shelter from Gordie's ribbing, Stan moves towards his protecting mother as a shield. While standing behind his mother, who is busy sewing, he slowly starts to massage her shoulders. An unsatisfied Gordie punches Stan on his arm, who is caught unaware. As a result, Stan's hand slips forward and lands inside his mother's dress through the neck, down her front. In the ensuing fumble, he is left holding his mother's tit. Instead of withdrawing instantly and apologizing, he gropes and plays with it. Not receiving any reprimand motivates Stan to pursue further over the next few weeks and months, which he does subsequently on various occasions, finding various excuses, inventing some on the way. His mother is considerate and lenient towards him for how he is. For finding self-confidence, and standing up for himself, he gets rewarded by his mother - mostly amorously. Stan goes to some lengths to show his mother that he is a changed, self-confident, self-reliant man. To an extent, he also does change. And for that, he is rewarded liberally.

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Gordie

Growing up, the differences between Stan and me became increasingly apparent. Despite being a close-knit family, I couldn't shake the feeling that Mom favored Stan over me. This disparity was evident from our early years; Mom would often feed Stan by hand, and Dad seemed to offer him preferential treatment during our sibling squabbles. Though explanations were scarce, Mom occasionally justified her actions by saying things like, "Stan needs more attention than you do" or "You are much stronger and smarter than Stan." Over time, I internalized these messages, growing to see myself as superior in strength and intellect. It's unclear whether the extra care Stan received contributed to his eventual struggles and reserved demeanor, but he did seem to stumble more frequently and face greater challenges than I did.

In school, much like at home, I grew increasingly self-assured and confident. By the time we reached eighteen, I had a steady girlfriend named Janet, possessed a driver's license, and was an active member of both the football and tennis teams. Stan, on the other hand, seemed to excel in nothing except eating. When I started working out about a year and a half ago, setting up my own exercise stations in our basement, Stan briefly attempted to join me before quickly deciding it wasn't his cup of tea.

Despite the surface-level rivalry between siblings, I harbored a fondness for him, primarily because I knew he posed no threat to me. I often also looked after him at school, especially when got picked on or bullied by someone. On the other hand, at home, I pushed him around.

In one instance, I punched his arm, instantly regretting it as he took it hard and stumbled forward onto Mom. I hurriedly left the scene before Mom could reprimand me.

A week later, one afternoon, Stan picked a fight with me. I couldn't fathom what had gotten into him. Taken aback, I landed another punch on his arm-unfortunately, with the same result, causing him to stumble forward onto Mom's shoulder. I suspected he was trying to manipulate the situation to his advantage by trapping me in front of Mom, who would inevitably blame me for the altercation. I resolved not to be manipulated by his antics from that point onward.

A few weeks later, Stan offered to pay me to wash the dishes, leaving me puzzled. Then, a couple of weeks after that, he sweetened the deal, offering two hundred dollars for me to wash the dishes and clean my room. I couldn't believe it. Surely, he was up to something. Though I couldn't quite pinpoint his motives, I was determined to uncover his plan.

After a few Tuesdays and Thursdays when it was my turn to wash dishes, I noticed a pattern: Stan would retire to his bedroom, Mom to hers, and while Dad was in the living room around the time, I would be washing dishes in the kitchen. Despite my efforts to unravel his scheme, I couldn't quite discern his intentions, but I was certain he was plotting something.

Around that time, the specific episodes around Johnsons were something that indeed changed everything for Stan at school and I guess also at home.

A small misunderstanding led the Johnsons, our adversaries in school, to believe Stan had a black belt in Judo. Stan's behavior began to change. He seemed more confident. In the follow up melee with the Johnsons, surprisingly Stan indeed stood his ground.

That summer, Stan began taking driving lessons from Mom in her station wagon, while I was aiming to get my hands on the GTO that Dad and I had been tirelessly working on for a while.

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With Stan's newfound confidence, at school and more importantly at home, I found myself gradually receding into the background. It wasn't readily noticeable to anyone. It wasn't as though Stan had started playing sports or excelling in areas where I lagged. I was still a part of the school's football and tennis teams, continually honing my skills. I had a steady girlfriend, Janet, and our relationship had progressed past second base. And while Stan may have been taking driving lessons in Mom's station wagon, I already had a driver's license and was going after Dad's GTO.

However, as is often the case, mothers possess an uncanny intuition about their children, coupled with an unwavering determination to protect them. Our mother was no exception.

Little did I realize, Stan's remarkable transformation into a different person was solely thanks to Mom's influence.

That day, Dad and I were filled with excitement as we prepared to take the GTO for its inaugural test drive. Dad eagerly took the driver's seat, revving the engine a few more times to savor the powerful roar that emanated from the vehicle. It was music to our ears.

After Dad stepped out of the car, eager to embark on a proper drive, he hurriedly cleared away the tools scattered around and dashed towards the bathroom attached to the garage to wash his hands and clean up.

"Let's go, Gordie," he exclaimed, "She's ready for a nice ride. Let's take her out for a long drive." I quickly cleared the path in front of the GTO in anticipation.

Just before entering the bathroom, as an afterthought, Dad called out to me, "Gordie, why don't you call Stan as well? I think he should come with us."

I nodded.

With excitement bubbling inside me, I took a few eager steps toward the house and caught sight of Mom peering down at the commotion from her bedroom window. Despite the engine's noise having subsided somewhat, the car still emitted a noticeable hum.

In my eagerness to not miss the action in the garage, instead of entering the house to look for Stan, I called out to her, "Mom, tell Stan Dad wants him to join us for the first test drive."

To my surprise, Mom's response came swiftly: "He can't go; we're going driving again."

I couldn't believe Mom's response; it seemed like she didn't grasp the significance of what I was offering. Stupefied, I found myself torn between the thrill of going for a spin in the GTO and the mundanity of trying out the station wagon.

Despite Mom's suggestion of what Stan should be doing, I couldn't let it go without one more attempt.

Partly shouting over the noise of the GTO in the garage and partly exasperated with the unnecessary discussion, I turned back to her, determined to make her see what was cool and what definitely wasn't.

Glancing back at her window, I was met with an enigmatic smile on her face, reminiscent of the Mona Lisa.

I yelled back, "He won't want to miss this!"

My mouth and my eyes seemed distended from my body. While I was shouting the message that my brain had relayed, my eyes saw something that must have frazzled my brain silly.

Indubitably, Stan stood right behind Mom peering over her shoulder and his arms were wrapped around Mom and his hands were planted squarely on her tits, outside her dress.

The last part of my sentence must have barely reached Mom or Stan.

Without shaking his hands off, even more shockingly as if nothing was amiss, Mom answered "He won't want to miss his driving lesson either!"

What followed was even more bizarre. Mom lifted her hands and closed them over Stan's as if covering her bare breasts, but she didn't pull his hands away.

Looking stunned, I stared for ten long seconds, then haltingly turned away.

Mom sighed.

Those ten seconds would last me a lifetime. Everything that had been happening, more importantly over the past couple of months, came flashing back in front of my eyes in those ten seconds. Every pat on Stan's cheek from Mom, every kiss on his head or his cheek, every ruffle of his hair by Mom now seemed lurid to me.

Not believing myself, or my eyes, I almost turned for another look, but I had seen what I had seen. It was not his hands on her breasts that mattered, 'maybe he was getting insolent' I would have assumed. But it was Mom's expression, or the lack of any, that bowled me over.

Dad was already in the driver's seat, waiting for us to embark on our journey. "Is he coming?" he inquired, his tone tinged with curiosity.

I was too stunned to form words. Silently, I shook my head and made my way to the seat beside him.

Before I could fully settle in, Dad started the engine, propelling us forward. There was no time for me to steal another glance at Mom's bedroom window.

For understandable reasons, Dad prolonged the GTO's drive as much as possible. We must have zipped around for about half an hour, navigating town roads and then onto the highway. After covering roughly thirty miles, Dad pulled over for a brief snack break.

When Dad handed me the reins of the GTO for the return journey, my eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but my mind was elsewhere. My heart wasn't in the drive; instead, my emotions careened from confusion to anxiety, then to anger, and finally to fury.

That night I confronted Stan in his room. "You bastard. You groped Mom!!" I accused him as if Mom was the victim in the episode.

Instead of owning up Stan balked at the idea. He denied having done anything. He straight up refused even being inside Mom's room.

I had already dealt with the illusion theory in my mind. I had questioned myself a hundred times while I was in the car with Dad, whether or not I saw him groping Mom's tits. There was no sun in my eyes, if anything it was behind trees and it was sufficiently bright outside for me not to miss what I saw.

Our argument led to little. With lack of proof, I could only go so far.

Reversing the accusation, Stan accused me, "I must tell Mom this. You have gone nuts. Now you are accusing me of sexually assaulting Mom."

I recanted and begged him not to tell Mom and even offered to apologize for the confusion and took the blame, "It must have been me. Dad and I had been chugging beers all afternoon. I must have thought that's what I saw."

Stan harrumphed.

"I'm sorry bro." I pleaded to let it pass. He acquiesced as if doing me a favor.

He would have me fooled, but I was sure of what I saw. I had to find a way to get him with his guard down.

Over the next couple of days, I followed him around and stalked him without much success. I rolled around in bed for the next couple of nights, unable to sleep. My imagination started to grow wilder.

In my quest to catch Stan again with his hands inappropriately around Mom's tits, inadvertently I started to watch her breasts more often.

Mom's breasts were medium-sized and gorgeous to look at. They had a slanting shape forward with a late curve upward. Two shallow points, where her nipples must be, aimed at the eyes of the person facing her. On the sides, the rounded heft calmly jostled the weight of her boobs in the bra cups. It would seem she was wearing one cup size small.

As this went on, another few days later, I could not help but notice her plump mammaries floating rather freely in her dress. Clearly, she had given the bra a miss.

By the next week, I had all but forgotten about catching Stan in the act, ogled at her chest.

Mom could not have missed that. But she ignored me.

My lusty head was spinning and made me do something crazy. One day, I claimed the two globes of heavenly flesh in my hands. That day I noticed Mom was wearing a dress without a bra underneath. Dad and Stan were in different parts of the house. As she moved towards the kitchen shelf, I found myself getting up and standing behind her for only a brief couple of seconds. Mustering all the courage I had, with a zoned-out lustiness in my mind, I moved my hands around her waist.

Mom tensed instantly. Didn't jerk me off.

I moved my hands ahead and snaked them in her front, outside of her dress. Mom twitched.

Within a couple of seconds, my palms held in their center two of the finest pieces of godly creation -- my mom's tits.

I was intent on playing with the prized possessions for hours if it were possible. I closed my eyes to savor the moment and started to download the feel of her breasts in my tactile memory. My fingers moved ever so slowly on the base of her hanging tits. I lifted the weight of the twin globes and carried the two in my palms. To feel the fullness in its entirety I spread my palms around from below the breasts and pressed them ever so lightly and felt the tender water-filled balloons. My fingers could not circle them all the way to the top, so I moved my index finger and thumb towards the nipples, getting hold of the raised nipples, Mom shrugged hard, and I lost my grip.

My mouth fell open in grief of having lost contact with the best gift I had in my hands. In desperation, I looked down at my hands and the missing gift.

Mom, in the meanwhile, had turned around. Just as I looked up, a slap on my face shook me out of the zone. In under ten seconds, I had gained nirvana and lost it all and got a slap in reward.

Along with the slap, Mom said, "Gordie!"

It did not sting. The noise might have sounded as if it did, but I did not feel the heat of the slap. What hurt me more was that Mom had felt me unworthy of something that she found Stan suitable for. I was crushed.

At that moment, more than ever that I could remember, I felt cheated and short-changed.

Mom could see it in my eyes.

I was on the verge of crying. My eyes went wet.

Swept with maternal love, Mom moved forward and opened her arms for me.

My arms were in my front when Mom hugged me, resulting in an awkward situation. My folded arms between our bodies distanced what could have been a proper embrace. I was lost in my own emotions, half-ashamed for what I had done and half-angry for her step-motherly treatment.

With mixed emotions, I stepped back and Mom's hold around my back, which was loose already, opened. I retreated further and looking her in the eyes, feeling betrayed I ran off to my room.

An hour later, there was a gentle knock on my door, followed by Mom's voice calling softly, "Gordie... Gordie..."

I remained silent, rising from my seat to lock the door from inside. The click of the lock must have conveyed my unwillingness to engage in any conversation. I ignored her subsequent calls, refusing to respond. I also did not join them for dinner.

Over the next two days, I wore a sullen expression around the house.

"Dad asked me, "Is everything alright, son?" I nodded in response.

"Are the Johnsons causing any trouble?" he prodded further.

I shook my head, casting a glance towards Stan on the opposite sofa.

On my turn, I sheepishly finished my chores over the next few days and silently went to my room. Whenever it wasn't my turn, I started to stay out late.

Even while I felt cast down, the tactile memory of Mom's tits refused to be erased from my head. Their shape persisted in my mind, though I hadn't actually seen them. Memory of Mom's tits pervaded my thoughts. I could still feel their warmth. It got worse with each passing day. Like a drug, I craved the opportunity to experience the bliss of their touch again.

Besides over-analyzing why Mom took ten seconds to thwart my efforts, I laid hours on my bed at night, remembering the exquisite shape of Mom's tits that I had caressed with the full expanse of my palms. I reminisced the roll of my digits, reaching her nipples between my index fingers and thumbs. I luxuriated remembering the warmth her tits exuded which I had stored in my mind. Their feel was timeless - soft, yet firm and resilient. It made me groan.

I dreamed of her tit's night and day. I could not muster the courage to shag even once for many days. I used the deep memory of her tits -engraved in my hands -- to cup my balls and my cock. Recalling the same warmth of her tits on my groin; using the same palms that had held her tits and transferring their love to my cock. My eyes remained closed as I cupped my balls and played with them just as I had with her tits. I blew my load merely by touching myself coupled with my perverted thoughts. With my boxers off, strings flew up towards my chest, messing up my t-shirt.

Mom tactfully avoided discussing my transgression and didn't broach the subject with me. However, I never doubted that she would escalate it with Dad or take it up with Stan.

To occupy my mind, I began spending more time outdoors. My visits to the home gym, which I had assembled in the basement, also increased.

A couple of years prior, Mom and Dad had invested in a cross-trainer. However, Mom was the only one who used it occasionally, typically once or twice a week. The makeshift gym occupied a third of our basement, with the cross-trainer nestled in one corner. Dad didn't object to the gym equipment, perhaps maintaining the pretense that he, too, might someday use it. However, that day had only come once, the previous year.

Typically, Mom would use the cross-trainer at hours different from my gym sessions. However, when the school closed for summer break, I found myself with extra hours to fill. Unintentionally, I encroached on Mom's usual workout time.

Although the tension with Mom had eased largely, there was still a lingering chill in my heart. Despite her efforts to move forward and overlook the incident as an anomaly, the underlying tension remained palpable in my mind.

The first time that summer, I saw Mom enter the basement in her workout gear --a pair of tights and a t-shirt --I couldn't help but cringe. I felt a surge of annoyance, wondering why she was intruding on my space during my designated time. It didn't occur to me at the time that I was the one stretching my gym sessions. Nevertheless, I refused to concede space.

After exchanging brief greetings of "Hi Gordie" and "hey Mom," we each focused on our respective workouts. Mom started with yoga stretches on her mat, spending about fifteen minutes before moving to the cross-trainer for a thirty-minute session.

As she prepared to leave, Mom waved in my direction and said, "Bye honey." All I could manage was a strained "bye," as my mouth hung open in disbelief.

I was in love with Mom all over again, Mom - the woman. My heart was pumping faster than when I had run five miles non-stop.

After she left, I took a while trying to rewind the past hour. I recalled Mom had laid down the mat in the middle of the gym section. From my bench, I had a side view of her stretching. Her profile was unbelievably clean. As she stretched with her hands high in the air, her breasts rose delightfully on her chest. Her form-fitting dri-fit t-shirt gave away the curves on her chest. Her breasts sloped forward because of the stretch. The t-shirt fell loose on her abdomen a couple of inches and ended at her hips. The tights on her legs stuck to her thighs and calves and ended just above her ankles. Her bright red Skechers matched with her t-shirt. The curve of her hips in the tights showcased what I had missed in all these years, a taut ass begging to be fondled and kissed.

When she tiptoed to reach high for an arm-raise stretch above her head, her calves and thighs tightened delightfully. The shape of her legs was to die for.

For the first fifteen minutes of her stretching yoga routine, I did not move a muscle and possibly didn't consciously breathe either. I sat on the bench admiring her workout. Unquestionably, Mom knew I was not doing anything but just sat and admired her routine if I could call it that. To me, it was a dance loaded with hypnotic seduction.

I had fumbled a little when Mom finished her stretching and took a few sips of water. Her chest was heaving from the exercise. She raised her head high to drink water from her flask. It was mesmerizing to watch the mere flow of water traveling into her throat, in sync with her chest rising and falling, and then one rebellious trickle that slipped her lips and trickled down her neck and got lost inside her t-shirt.

For the next thirty minutes or so, she slugged it out on the cross-trainer. Blissfully unaware of what was happening behind her as she climbed an unseen mountain on the trainer. I sat a few feet behind her, on my bench, and admired an unhindered view of her ass and her back.

With each climb cycle, Mom's butt cheeks rolled and rose and fell and rolled. A hypnotic pendulous movement so enticing I fell in love with her butt.

Just when I could take no more, halfway through her cross-trainer routine, Mom upped her arms and pulled her t-shirt off that was clinging to her body because of the sweat she had worked up.

White alabaster skin appeared from underneath the t-shirt, contrasted with the neon green sports bra she had on. A shapely waist shone with beads of sweat, cried for attention between the sports bra on top and tights on her bottom. Her arms moved consistently with handles, and I noticed her thin upper arms.

From my position, she looked like a young woman no more than thirty years old giving the cross-trainer a good run.

My mouth remained open, my throat dry, my cock hard, and my chest thumping. Her routine ended in half an hour, but it seemed like an eternity in which I had made love to her countless times. I engraved her every move in my memory as if we were going to separate and I would have to live my life only on those memories.

Mom might not have reached the last of the stairs when I had shucked my shorts to take my cock in my hand, furiously giving it a go.

In less than ten pulls, I was gloriously blowing my cum all over the gym floor. With my eyes closed I recollected the best parts of the past hour.

"Oh my god," I let out, as the last of the string flew out my cock. I paid no heed to the shuffle at the top of the stairs.

I had found nirvana once again. I was ready to die now. Or so I thought at that moment.

My life had found a new mission. A renewed calling drove my mind. I wanted way more than just to play with her tits.

In the wake of that fateful day in our basement gym, an insatiable craving surged within me--to observe Mom's exercise routine with an obsessive intensity. I meticulously noted the days of the week and the frequency of her workouts, determined to align my own gym sessions with hers.

As days turned into weeks, I discerned that mom typically exercised twice a week in the mornings, with Mondays and Fridays her most favored days. I seized the opportunity to schedule my workouts for every day of the week, ensuring I started an hour or so earlier than her.

Though I lacked a concrete plan, the flip side results of my working out throughout the summer were undeniably rewarding. The extra hours spent in the gym began to manifest in my physique; while I had been fit before, by the end of the summer, I was proudly sporting a six-pack. However, perhaps the most significant outcome was the newfound connection I forged with Mom. During these shared gym sessions, it was just Mom and me, with no dad or Stan in sight. Notably, Mom too benefited from the change in her exercise regimen, experiencing positive improvements in her own fitness journey.

This is how my summer went...

I had been ogling at Mom's routine every time she visited the basement gym.

"Do you live here now?" she had remarked, noticing my increased presence.

I had rehearsed a response for such a line of questioning, but at that moment, I found myself speechless and stumbled over my words. She smiled knowingly.

Finally remembering my prepared reply, I managed to stammer out, "It's just that I have more time during the break."

Mom smiled and nodded in understanding.

On our fourth encounter in the basement gym, after she completed about ten minutes of her yoga stretches, Mom turned to me, disregarding my consistent gaze, and asked, "Would you be a dear and help me stretch?"

Before my voice could catch up to my thoughts, I found myself standing up, unable to form a coherent response.

Mom clarified, "I've been wanting to try some new postures, but I haven't been able to manage them on my own."

I nodded in response.

Mom smiled and pressed, "Are you sure?" She was encouraging me to say yes, but my throat seemed to betray me once again.

Sheepishly, I nodded once more.

Mom turned squarely on her mat, positioning her feet together, and gestured for me to stand beside her, facing her. I was granted a close-up view of her profile. She wore a fitted t-shirt, most likely over a sports bra, paired with black tights. The subtle fragrance of her perfume enveloped me, transporting my thoughts to a serene garden.

Mom extended her right leg behind her, attempting to arch it as high as possible. She then lifted her right arm and stretched it higher and behind her head. I watched in awe, unsure of my role.

She was striving for the Yoga Dancer Pose but struggled to reach her raised leg at her back. Just as she began to waver, she called out, "Gordieee!"

Instantly snapping out of my daze, I sprang into action. My right hand instinctively found its place on her waist, while my left supported her leg, providing stability. She steadied immediately.

As my fingers lightly grazed her abdomen, I felt pleasant warmth emanating from her waist. She wasn't sweating, her skin felt comforting against my fingers. Maintaining composure, I gradually loosened my hold on her waist, allowing only the slightest contact. Shifting my left hand from her knee to her shin, I assisted her in lifting the leg higher.

Just when Mom seemed to falter, I gently guided her leg further up, helping her achieve a few extra inches. Releasing my hold on her waist, I repositioned my hand to support her raised forearm, aiding in the extension of her arm behind her head.

Mom's hand remained distant from her raised foot behind her, yet she stretched with newfound determination. Applying gentle pressure to both her right leg and hand, I felt her emit a soft, "aaaah."

Despite her efforts, her body resisted the full expression of the pose. As she eased back onto the ground, satisfied with her attempt, she declared, "Now, the other side."

We repeated the stretch with similar results, Mom taking a few deep breaths before directing me to her right side once more.

Instead of repeating the sequence, Mom transitioned to a different posture. Joining her feet together, she reached her hands upward, arching backward for a deep stretch. After a brief pause, she gracefully folded forward, palms meeting the floor without bending her knees--a significant accomplishment. Sensing she no longer required assistance, I observed as she held the pose for a few seconds before transitioning smoothly.

Interlocking her fingers and creating a cup with her hands, she gently rested the top of her head within the palm of her hands, slowly lifting her lower body into the air. As she attempted the Headstand, she requested my support to maintain balance.

Quickly stabilizing Mom's legs from the ankles, I gradually loosened my grip as she found her equilibrium. With no further need for assistance, she held the Headstand for nearly thirty seconds, her black sports bra visible beneath her shifted t-shirt.

Returning to an upright position, Mom's flushed face indicated the rush of blood from the inversion. Though not breathless, she took deep gasps to steady herself.

Standing beside her, I felt somewhat useless until she opened her arm for a hug. Awkwardly embracing her, I received a comforting pat on the back as she expressed her gratitude, "Thank you, honey. That was great."

A few minutes later, I was back on my bench, and Mom was on the cross-trainer. I tried to recollect all that we had done over the last five minutes, my hands around her body, her warmth, her perfume, and her taut calf muscles.

As she prepared to leave the basement that morning, she hesitated, turning back to me. "Do you mind helping me until I have my stretches right?" she asked.

I rose, feeling a tinge of confusion. Did she intend to start now, or was this a task for later?

"Um, sure..." I stumbled over my words.

She clarified, "Some of these poses require assistance. I can't quite manage them alone. I hope I'm not imposing..."

Before she could retract her request, I interjected, "No, Mom, I'm happy to help with whatever you need."

Her face lit up with a warm smile at my eagerness.

"Okay, see you later," She moved ahead, put an arm around my neck, and kissed me on my cheek as I spontaneously bent forward.

I was in heaven, to say the least. I had received formal permission to be in the gym around when she would be there, to help her with her stretches. I could touch her. I was ecstatic and it showed in my body language the rest of the day.

Regaining my cocky self-confidence, I began throwing my weight around Stan more aggressively than usual.

Stan didn't take kindly to it and fought back, within seconds we were pushing and shoving. Our sparring sessions had become rare lately. After the incident with the Johnsons, I had given Stan his space. And ever since the day I caught him groping Mom, I had kept my distance.

Two days later, Mom was in the basement gym. However, she carried on with her routine without asking for my help with her stretching. I figured she must have been tired or preoccupied, considering she didn't even complete her usual forty-five-minute exercise session. What struck me even more was that she didn't remove her t-shirt, something she usually did halfway through her time on the cross-trainer.

The following week, as I pushed weights, Mom finished her stretching routine. I was seriously hoping she would ask for my assistance that day.

But when she didn't and instead reached for her water bottle before starting on the cross-trainer, I couldn't help but feel impatient. "You don't need me to help with your stretches?" I asked, a hint of frustration creeping into my voice.

"No, thank you," she replied curtly, skipping the usual pleasantries as she dove into her workout. Once again ending earlier than usual and not feeling the need to remove her t-shirt which was something I craved for in her workout sessions.

Crestfallen, I moved about half-heartedly with my exercises.

Two days later, on a Sunday, Mom and Stan pulled into the driveway after their long drive in the station wagon. I had just finished my jog and saw them rounding the final bend from a distance. Feeling a pang of envy, I slowed my pace for the last hundred meters before arriving home.

Surprisingly, despite trailing behind them, I managed to catch up just as they were emerging from the garage. Stan seemed startled when I greeted Mom from just a couple of feet away. I was not sure, but he looked startled.

Although a bit breathless from the jog, I hadn't exerted myself too much.

Instead of stepping forward, Stan shifted sideways, his footing faltered as the edge of his shoe caught in the groove between our cement pathway and the gravel driveway. As he toppled backward, unable to break his fall, I instinctively extended my foot to intercept his descent. His head came down on my foot just as it would have struck the unforgiving corner of the cement pathway. It all happened so swiftly that if I hadn't intervened, he would have suffered a significant head injury.

Mom stood beside me, witnessing the split-second rescue unfold. Her immediate reaction was to drop to her knees beside Stan. "Are you okay, honey? Are you hurt?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mom," Stan mumbled, brushing off the incident with an excuse "I didn't notice the groove."

Only then did Mom turn her attention to me, extending her hand to grasp my arm warmly.

Everyone seemed to overlook the fact that Stan's head had landed on my foot, cushioning his fall but leaving a cut on my skin, now trickling with blood. At the time, it appeared inconsequential.

Upon noticing my injury, Mom exclaimed, "Gordie, you should have said something!" She hurriedly ushered me inside to tend to the wound, though it turned out to be minor. She couldn't miss the significance of my spontaneous action, which had spared Stan from a far worse outcome.

Mom made a massive fuss about it for the rest of the day, pampering me with whatnots. I got countless kisses on my cheek from Mom all afternoon.

The following morning, Mom noticed that I had headed to the basement gym despite my injury. She approached me directly and inquired, "How's your foot, dear? Is it still hurting?"

"No, Mom, it's fine now," I boasted, despite the lingering sting that I knew would persist for a couple more days. No more jogging for me for at least a week.

Seated on the bench, I watched as Mom turned to face me, standing between my legs. With a tender gesture, she reached out and cradled my head, wrapping her arms around me and drawing me into the comforting embrace of her chest. She bent forward kissing me on top of my head.

"Your thoughtful reaction saved Stan from getting hurt too. Thank you, baby," she acknowledged, recognizing that it was my quick thinking that prevented Stan from injury. Though the action had been entirely instinctive, it deserved commendation for its effectiveness. Mom had 'put a ring on it,' understanding the significance of my intervention in protecting Stan from harm.

I enjoyed the feeling of soft globes on my forehead, the side of my face buried in her belly as she rolled her hands in my head.

Ideally, a thank you hug should have lasted a few seconds, but this one going on longer.

I fought the immeasurable temptation to pull my hands behind her back, but I got scared it would end the dream-like situation we were in. But it did end a minute later.

Mom curved her hand around my cheek and bent one more time to kiss my cheek, "you better take care of the foot while you exercise."

"No Mom, I mean... yes... I won't be doing the lower body workout for a couple of days." I replied.

"In that case, you might as well help me with the stretches." Not that it was correlated, but who was I to question. I jumped straight up.

Mom chuckled. "In a few minutes, dear. Let me do my warmups first," she said smiling.

I blushed for showing my exuberance and sat back down on my bench, hastily picking up my dumbbell, as if I was busy.

Mom did her stretches in slow motion. A good fifteen minutes later, she turned towards me and nodded for me to come over. Excitedly, I took the four steps between us.

Before getting into the next part of the routine, Mom pulled her hands higher and got the t-shirt off. Beneath it appeared a neon pink sports-bra. My eyes soaked in her upper body from up close.

I was supposed to help her again with the Dancing pose. Mom struggled again but I was by her side all through. She went for two sets of repetitions for both sides. My hands on her bare waist had a feeling that matched nothing else I knew of. The mild glistening sweat tempered the warmth of her skin. When I was supposed to remove the palm to support her just with my fingers, I overlooked the part and stuck to holding her with my full palm, merely reducing the pressure unwilling to give up the feel of her skin.

For the Headstand, she needed less help physically, but the support was crucial to get her steady into the pose. I stood by and supported her legs lightly.

When Mom straightened up, the result on her face was the same. Blood rushed to her face, and she was red from her face to her upper chest.

Before she went on to her cross-trainer, she gave me a single arm hug and kissed my cheek to thank me.

Over the next few weeks, throughout the remainder of my summer break, Mom joined me regularly to workout in the basement gym, gradually increasing her attendance from two days to three days a week. As she delved deeper into her yoga practice, she found herself requiring more assistance from me, especially with her stretches.

In each subsequent session, Mom intensified the intensity of her yoga postures, necessitating greater support from me. One day, as she attempted her yoga Dancing pose, she requested help in pulling her upper arm back towards her raised leg behind her. I complied, but her frustration was evident as she sought further adjustment.

Without much hesitation, I applied pressure to Mom's chest, although it yielded little additional benefit. Recognizing the need to target her spine for proper stretching, I instinctively knew that the support she required was around her ribs. With a subtle adjustment, I nudged her in that area, allowing her to extend her pose further with ease.

I lowered my hand from her chest to her ribcage. Mom wasn't expecting it. I deftly managed to apply pressure on her ribs with the tips of my fingers. My wrist came in touch with her breast, where her nipple would be.

At that moment our focus was on getting her to bend back and we did manage to get extra inches, but she still had to go a few more before her extended hand could touch the curved foot from behind.

When Mom released the posture, she did not warn me and leaned forward. My fingers lost their place. Before I could pull back my hand her chest was moving forward. Because of the simultaneous moves on our part, my hand grazed her right breast as I withdrew.

Ignoring the brush of her breast with my hand, Mom was beaming a big smile. Mom felt she had achieved more than she had planned. Thanks to my nudge on her ribcage, her stretch had gone further than it had ever before.

"I think that helped," she exclaimed.

I nodded, amazed to have received an appreciation instead of a reprimand.

Mom expected me to help similarly with the left side as well. We got just about the same result with just about the same effort. With my pressure on her ribcage, this time with my left fingers got my left wrist to make contact with her left breast. I was extra careful of her release and on this occasion moved my hand forward instead of sideways when she straightened up avoiding the brush with her breast.

Mom was really glad that she had managed to push the extra inches.

My hands had once again, maybe wrists in this case, had touched Mom's tits, one at a time. I was elated. And it reflected in my jack-off session later that night.

This continued for another few sessions and by then I was pushing her on the ribcage from the get-go and letting my wrist brush brazenly with her breasts. I got no rebuke.

The matter escalated in one session when we were both pushing harder and the gap between Mom's extended hand behind her and the stretched leg was barely an inch or two apart.

Much as she tried, she couldn't reach. In the excitement of how close Mom was, I opened my palm and let my fingers give space to my palm. My open hand stretched between her breasts, and I pressed harder still, "you are there Mom," I exclaimed.

The tips of Mom's fingers reached the toes on her right leg. Even in the contorted form, she smiled.

When she let go and tried to straighten, her release was slow. My hand was in full stretch mode between her tits. Two of my extended fingertips were touching her soft flesh on the tit and the rest on her sports bra. It wasn't by any means a slip of my hand; I had planted it there.

As Mom straightened up, I relaxed my hand from her front but didn't let go, as if she needed support to even come up straight.

Mom exclaimed, "Finally!"

I wish she would be referring to the culmination of my weeks of effort to reach her breasts with my hand, but she had her successful yoga posture in mind.

We took a minute's break before repeating the left side. With a lot more confidence, I placed my hand properly between her breasts and let my fingers go where they felt needed with the only objective being - to get Mom to successfully achieve her posture right. Lo and behold, her left side was easier, and she touched her left toes with her fingers quickly but not without my able support of pressing my palm between her breasts.

Mom must have thanked me ten times that morning and given me at least three kisses on the cheek.

Cockily, I countered, "isn't that just for one side."

Mom chuckled and plastered another few kisses on my other cheek. As she bent forward to kiss, my hand reached for her back and touched the bare skin next to her sports bra. It had been many sessions that she had now started taking the t-shirt off right at the beginning of her exercise routine and not waiting until later. A little wet from the mild sweat she had worked up, mixed with her perfume, made it to my nostrils, and then went to my brain.

From then on, the stretches became easier, and my hands were liberally settling around her front when she stretched. With each instance that my transgression was ignored, I claimed more territory on her chest.

I was blasé about the dangers of the path I was treading. Often, I would cover her tit in the cup of my hand while helping her reach the Dancing pose. The orb would settle in my palm languidly as she stretched, needing no support from me after having reached a level where she could handle the posture on her own. My ideal hand would simply cover her boob as if it risked falling off her chest because of the contortion of her pose. She was now letting it pass. I was playing with my cock for a long time each night, remembering the feeling.

For her headstand, I no longer supported her foot or her ankles, but I would sit on my haunches to hold her high on her thighs, sometimes even on her butt under the guise of straightening her stance. Oh, what a pleasure!

It was not lost upon me that Mom's leniency was in direct correlation to my behavior towards Stan. The easier I was with him, the more lenient she was with me. Any day I was brash or crude with Stan, I got fewer gropes in our next session. Any day I was congenial with Stan, I rewarded myself with extra privileges.

As expected, the summer break eventually ended. By the end of those couple of months, Mom had made remarkable progress in her flexibility compared to where she started at the beginning of the summer.

Meanwhile, I had achieved a sculpted six-pack abdomen. But perhaps most notably, our bond had acquired a subtle layer of sensuality through our shared workout sessions.

However, with the onset of the school year, I found it increasingly challenging to coordinate my workout schedule with Mom's. Both of us felt the absence of our shared exercise routine, though admittedly, it weighed more heavily on me than on her.

At school, I swiftly joined the football team, eager to immerse myself in the camaraderie and competitive spirit of the sport. Although I didn't officially join the tennis team, I made it a point to play twice a week at our school's facilities. Reflecting on it now, my affinity for tennis stemmed from Mom's early influence when she would take Stan and me to the club to play during our childhood. Mom and Dad were esteemed members of this exclusive club, where Mom would often engage in spirited matches with her friends. Among them, Mom and her friend Laura stood out as the most formidable players. While Stan lost interest in tennis early on, I continued to tag along like an eager puppy, enamored by my first crush who frequented the courts.

My tennis journey began over five years ago when I was just in my early teens, under the guidance of a coach barely older than myself. Though she has since moved away, her influence left a lasting impression. Over time, my appreciation for tennis evolved beyond mere infatuation to a genuine love for the sport itself.

Unlike the collective effort of football, tennis offered me a sense of grace and balance, granting me the space to showcase my individual talents. I found solace in the personal satisfaction that came from mastering the finesse and strategy of the game. While football served as a means to impress others and represent the school, tennis became my sanctuary, where I could revel in my own skill and express my unique style of play.

It didn't take long for Mom to pivot from our shared interest in working out together. One day, she broached the topic, "Honey, I've been thinking about changing up my workout routine and maybe incorporating some sports."

Dad and Stan sat next to us at the table. Conversations of this kind between Mom and me no longer raised any eyebrows, given they were aware of our summer workout sessions.

I shrugged, feeling a slight sense of detachment now that our proximity had diminished. "I guess."

After a few moments of silence, I offered a suggestion, albeit without any specific idea in mind. "You should start playing tennis again," I said, nodding. "You're really good at it." It was no secret within the family that I preferred tennis over football.

Mom's eyes lit up at the idea. "That's a great idea," she exclaimed. Within moments, she was considering potential playing partners. "If only Laura hadn't moved away, I'd have a regular partner," she mused aloud. Then, after a pause, she added, "I'll have to figure out who to play with now."

Dad, feeling the need to contribute to the conversation, chimed in, "Maybe you could play with Gordie. His game has improved quite a bit."

This time, it was my turn for excitement. I glanced at Mom, who was seeking my approval with a sparkle in her eyes. Struggling to maintain my composure, I managed a nonchalant, "Sure."

The only tick box remaining was where to play. However, it didn't take long to find a solution. I was already playing tennis twice a week, but Mom couldn't join me at school. She proposed, "I'll pick you up from school on Wednesdays and Fridays. We'll head to the club and play there."

The solution was perfect, to say the least. It meant I wouldn't have to play with Mom in front of my school friends, and no one from school was likely to be found at the club.

Before our first tennis session the following Wednesday, Mom had already made the court reservations. She picked me up in her station wagon, and we set off for the club, a twenty-minute ride away.

Mom was dressed for the occasion, sporting a short tennis skirt paired with a halter dri-fit top. On it, she wore a windbreaker that provided a light cover for her chest and shoulders.

Over the summer I had seen Mom in her tights during our workouts, but that day she had a short skirt. Her legs were bare from the hem of the skirt to the socks on her ankles. I stared merrily at her legs. Mom didn't strike up any conversation and let me leer.

Our first session did not go as expected. It was clear Mom had a bit of catching up to do. If she were playing any other lady on the courts, she would have kicked ass, but I was many levels better. Half an hour later we found our rhythm - a middle ground, where she raised her game, and I slowed down a lot to accommodate her progress.

Another hour later, Mom was tired, and we called it quits.

We lounged in the rattan chairs beside the court, basking in the tranquility of the midweek afternoon. Wednesdays were typically quieter at the club, there was no one queuing up and waiting for us to relinquish the court.

As Mom savored her mug of refreshing cucumber-infused water, I quenched my thirst with a gulp from the club's standard-issue bottle.

Had it not been for Mom's suggestion, I might have presumed our next move was to head home for our usual post-game shower. But she scoffed at the notion when I mentioned it.

It was late evening and the mild breeze calmed us a bit. We chit-chatted for a while. I spent the entire time stealing glances at Mom's legs. She let me have my jollies.

With a belated rise from her seat, Mom suggested, "Let's shower and change before heading home."

I couldn't refuse her directive, though I refrained from mentioning that I hadn't packed a change of clothes.

Rather than veering towards the lockers as expected, Mom led us straight to the reception area. She nodded cordially to the receptionist, who seemed to recognize her as a familiar face, perhaps a testament to the club's hospitality.

Without any formalities, Mom was promptly handed a key. She strode ahead confidently, and I followed in her wake.

Checking the number on the keychain, Mom navigated towards the rooms managed by the club. Room number 9 greeted us with the opulence of a well-appointed suite, resembling that of a luxury hotel.

Entering the room with an air of nonchalance, Mom informed me casually, "By the way, I did bring you a change of clothes."

Surprised and somewhat grateful for Mom's considerate gesture, I struggled to grasp the situation. "That's thoughtful, Mom. But why are we here in a room? Are we just going to shower here?"

She glanced at me, her expression implying I was asking something fundamental. "What else, dear?"

"Wow, Mom," I exclaimed, partly assuming she was footing the bill but hesitant to ask.

Mom clarified, "I prefer clean showers. The locker room facilities are often messy and not up to my standards. Besides, Annie, the general manager..... She's from Sri Lanka... remember?" I drew a blank. She just left it there.

It seemed Mom had been using her influence to secure a room for herself each time she visited the club, indulging in a private, luxurious shower before returning the key.

"Impressive, Mom," I remarked as we stepped deeper into the suite. She offered me the first turn, but I politely declined, insisting she go ahead.

Mom began to unpack her duffle bag methodically, laying out each item she would need after her shower on the bed with precision. She gathered nothing from the laid-out items and disappeared into the bathroom.

Left with idle time, I attempted to distract myself with the TV but soon grew bored and turned it off. Resigned to waiting, I buried my head in my phone, the sound of the running shower filling the room.

Like a dodo, it struck me that Mom's stuff was laid out on the bed right in front of me. I dumped my phone and went for her bra. A lush green net with embroidery around the ends and two arcs of wires embedded inside the lower seam, I had seen an underwire bra before. Never had the opportunity to unhook one, my girlfriend, Janet, only wore the normal ones.

My eyes then moved towards the matching panties Mom had laid down. Of course, they weren't new. Instinctively, I picked them up and brought them to my nose. A faint waft of Mom's pussy filled my nostrils or was it my feeling.

"Are they smelly?" Mom asked as she approached the bed.

I panicked and threw them on the bed as if I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I turned beet red.

"I...I..." I stuttered.

On one hand, I was panicky having got caught smelling her panties and on the other hand, my dick jolted to attention when I saw Mom in a single large towel covering her from the top of her breasts to her thighs.

I cannot remember if I was shivering but I must have been because I was cold. Or at least that's how I felt. But my loins were warm, my blood was hot, so what was going on. I had no idea.

Mom acted as if it was normal for her to appear in front of me in just a towel after a shower. Seeing my predicament, she took it upon herself to normalize the situation, bending forward she picked up the panties I had thrown on the bed, in her hand. She took it to her nose and smelled it and crooked her nose, not believing that she had been clumsy to bring along a dirty panty. She double-checked and smelled it again and agreed.

"I guess you are right honey, these do seem smelly." She kept them back on the bed. "I will figure something out," she calmly added, "why don't you go take a shower."

By then, my pulse had calmed a notch. I sat down on the chair to hide my erection.

"I think I would wait for a few more minutes," I had said so on account of my erection, but through me, God had spoken and allowed me to utter the words. Those extra few minutes meant I was going to witness Mom dress up.

Mom must have planned that she would use the time to dress up while I would shower. Possibly that's how she and Dad must have played, taking turns. Now she had a situation, because I wasn't going to the bathroom for a shower, and she needed to dress up.

After just a moment of hesitation, Mom asked me, "alright honey, you better turn around so I can change."

I found the confidence and naughtiness to simply smile and stay put.

Mom made a face, "alright, at least please close your eyes, dear."

I would give an arm and a limb but not close an eye -- I didn't say that out loud but that's what my grin conveyed to her.

"Okay, if that's how you are going to do this, suit yourself." Mom shrugged her towel in one go and let it fall on the floor.

Lightning struck throughout my body with more than 10,000 volts. My dick jolted as if I was going to explode in my slacks.

Seeing Mom completely and blissfully naked for the first time was a heavenly experience. My heart was pounding like a locomotive. Every curve on her body was sculpted, every muscle on her was shaped, and every part of her body was molded in heaven-sent clay.

I start clicking mental pictures of every section of her body. From a zoomed-out full-body view, I must say she looked hot beyond comparison. Her workouts were showing off on her plenty. Her chest, waist, and hips were ideally proportioned. I could see no flab around her arms, or her waist or her thighs.

I didn't hear her say anything even though her lips moved. I focused on her face. An angelic oval, with thin eyebrows and fish-like eyes that had a bit of a sparkle which made you feel special when she was talking to you. Just below her nose were her full lips. Her smile, when she would smile, was magnetic. Her lips, at that moment, had a little shine on them, I wondered what it was but under the shine her lips were pinkish. Her lips were moving but I wasn't receiving anything from her.

The slender neck gave way to a clean wide chest. A few pebbles of pimply spot marks complemented her chest which was pinkish.

Mom's tits, that I had held, were sitting on her chest proudly. A somewhat unique shape brought charm to her boobs. Firm skin sloped on her blobs and then they curved up. The nipples, which at that moment were proudly pushing out, sat on their throne of dark pink areolae. I recaptured the image to reconfirm if the nipples were erect, they weren't. But even in their sitting state, they looked magnificent. I wondered for a moment longer what they would feel like in my mouth.

Her waist started right below where her tits hung and a flattish tummy which undoubtedly was glistening with droplets of water from her shower. The droplets complemented the direction I was going. Each drop desperate to cling on to my mother resisted endlessly and then reluctantly trickled down towards her heavenly pussymound.

Waves of hair on her pussymound, neatly trimmed into a triangle, guided the onlooker towards pinkish pussy-lips. I could only see a tiny little upper part because her thighs were shutting off my view.

I tried to use my laser superpower to make her open the thighs, but it failed. I hastily looked up towards my adversary fighting me off. Mom was looking back at me exasperated with a frown on her face.

I ignored her and traveled back on her pussy with my eyes making a second attempt to open the thighs. Didn't work. One should fight battles they can win, I remembered and moved on.

Her thighs were whitish pink and the taut skin arched up a tad. The hundreds of hours of yoga were showing off. Mom's knees and shins were bony, but I remembered from memory -- having sat through hours behind her on the bench in our home gym -- her thighs and calves were carved like an athlete's.

I had an unbelievable craving to jump up and touch and feel her.

As if reading my mind, she asked, "Now that you have had an eyeful, come over here and help me with this." She had picked the underwired bra I had just been playing with earlier. I needed no further invitation.

I must have hopped to her because she smiled at my exuberance.

Mom pulled the bra on her arms and straps on her shoulders. She turned a little as I moved near her to her back. Before I held the bra to hook it, I admired Mom's bare backside. Just as I remembered from her yoga sessions, but now magnificently naked. A slim waist and well-rounded bum. I took my time to memorize the back just as I had with her front.

Mom's shoulders were pulled back as she held her bra for me to hook. Her spine moved slanting down in a series of grooves to the dovish end of her tailbone. Her hips broadened delectably from that point and expanded both sideways and outward. Her hips were firmly round like large melons. The drop from her hips to her thighs was sharp and the thighs and calves were carved beautifully with pain. That pain was her many hours of working out on the cross trainer and yoga.

"Gordieee...." Mom chided me.

Images stored in memory, along with the date, time, and place, I took a long sigh and stepped forward to clasp her bra behind her.

6.45 PM, August 26, 2009, Wednesday, Westwood Country Club, Huntsville, Alabama, USA.

Absent-minded, I clasped it to the last of the three hooks. What do I know? I had never been asked to put a bra back on. Until then my only aim had been to take them off and Janet had willingly let me.

Mom calmly told me, "honey, it is too tight."

Already hungover and overjoyed with the fresh liberty that Mom had just granted me, in a playful mood, I hooked the clasp to the first of the three hooks. I reckoned that the first would be a little loose on her chest.

"Gordie, you have to clasp it on the middle hook," Mom commented, not realizing the game I was playing.

"What..." I said, slightly quizzical. Then with as much nonchalance as I could muster, I moved my hand on her chest down her shoulder. I moved slowly to let her swat it off if she wanted. I am sure Mom was surprised as well. Then before she could respond, I had snaked my right hand inside her left bra cup and was holding her full boob in my hand. Its warmth overwhelmed me to no end. Her baby soft skin was extremely delicate to hold in my palm and I tried to lighten the hold so as not to hurt it. The raw emotion of holding Mom's bare tit was overwhelming.

At the same time, stepping closer to her made my achingly hard dick touch her lower back, right on the upper end of her butt. She twitched, I am not sure from the realization that I was poking her with my erection or with the hold on her tit.

I said, "I don't think it's that loose, is it?"

"Gordie..." She tried her best to put together a frown.

"What?...Okay, let me see this one," I slid my other hand down her shoulder diving straight into her right bra cup, simultaneously withdrawing my right hand from the other cup.

I claimed the other tit with just the same ease and marveled at God's creation. To emphasize my point that there was little space inside her bra cups, I arched my index finger and thumb inwards toward her areola and stopped when I was holding her stiff nipple. Oh my god, I thought. I pressed only the tiniest level to exert my presence on the bud and it responded. As did Mom, with a purr.

I kept playing with her tit when no reprimand came through.

"Gordie..." Mom said after I dug my lips on her neck. She tilted her head to the right to let me kiss her neck. That I did. I opened my mouth wide as if I was going to bite but I did not apply my teeth. I plonked my lips on her neck and brought my lips closer slowly until I was puckering her neck. Then I darted my tongue out to lick her skin.

Mom cooed pleasantly.

It didn't take long for me to start slowly humping her back, though I was unable to lower into her crack.

As my urgency grew, my hand started to squeeze harder, and Mom let out her first moan.

I wanted to slap myself silly for what happened next because no matter how hard I tried I could not hold myself and started to spurt my cum on her back. Or so I thought.

I was in fact cumming inside my underwear which got soaked under my slacks. The realization of what I was doing hit me harder even before the last of the spurt was out of my cock.

I hastily turned around and rushed inside the bathroom. "sorry......Mom," I barely let out a whisper.

I scolded myself to no end. I had blown it big time. Mom had let me have some liberties and I had taken it to a level she would not approve of. I was sure.

I wanted to lock myself inside the bathroom and vanish from there. I was racked with guilt and shame.

I forgot about taking a shower and sat on my knees inside the bathroom waiting for my mind to come up with the next course of action. I drew a blank.

Belatedly, I took my clothes off and took a long cold shower. Mom knocked on the door before I turned the shower off.

"Honey, your clothes are on the bed." Mom spoke normally. My heart sank further, I had jumped into the shower without bringing my clothes in with me.

Well, there was no way out of the situation, so I pulled myself together and walked out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist.

Mom already had her dress on, a nice olive-green single piece that went down more than halfway on her thighs, or should I say, it was high up on her thighs because she was sitting on the sofa.

Mom was smiling. She sat on the same sofa I was sitting on when she came out of the bathroom. Her legs were crossed, and she was facing in the direction of the bathroom door I was to walk out of.

My underwear, shorts, and a t-shirt were laid perfectly on the bed, the side that was near her.

Seeing her smile, I knew I was getting one in return. Unable to speak, because of my earlier transgression and because of the situation I had on hand, I grinned to get something from her. My one hand held the towel and the other raised towards my head.

From the bed, Mom stretched towards the bed and picked up the underwear I was supposed to wear. She said, grinning, "What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

With an equal amount of casualness, if not more, I repeated what Mom had done earlier, "suit yourself." I took the towel and threw it on the bed.

Mom too measured me from head to toe, and a lot in between. Her eyes floated around my body, my chest, my abs, my groin, and my semi-hard cock.

"mmmm, seems like you have been working out lately," Mom commented as if she didn't know but it came as a compliment because she admired what she saw.

"I had a fantastic training partner," I replied.

I was in no hurry and Mom made no hasty moves either. Without her asking I turned around to give her a three-sixty degree.

Mom threw the underwear in my direction which I caught in my hand.

"you better get dressed, Gordie." Mom changed her tone, almost admonishing me for the delay, I knew she was mocking.

I was ecstatic about the turn of events. Not only had she ignored my transgression, but she also made me model nude after I got to see her naked and play with boobs. What a day.

I picked up my clothes from the bathroom, and I took a quick glance around to see if I had missed anything. Nothing. I shoved my clothes in Mom's duffel, and I did not miss the fact that two panties were sitting nicely on top of Mom's other clothes inside the bag. At least one of those was the one I had held near my nose to smell. The easy guess for me was that Mom had gone panty-less for our ride back home.

Before we stepped out of our temporary room number 9, I stopped Mom at the door and kissed her on the cheek. "I love you, Mom." All the lust, the craving, the need, stemmed from an underlying love I had for her.

Mom kissed my cheek in return and said, "I love you way more." Then she calmly put her palm on my face and gave me a light peck on my lips.

I was on cloud nine, and I was sure there wasn't one above that.

Our ride back home was as normal as it could have been. It was like we had just exited a wormhole that brought us to this world from another alternate-reality universe.

Mom's dress although wasn't tight around her thighs, was sufficiently loose to flare around in the mild weather, we had that evening.

Before turning towards home, Mom and I picked dinner on the way from a nice oriental restaurant Dad liked. We were late and Mom told me, "I haven't got dinner ready."

If Dad or Stan were anxious about dinner, Dad smiled when he saw the large food bag, with a China Dragon logo, in Mom's hand. When we came in Dad was having a beer and Stan must have been in his room.

Mom asked me to call Stan for dinner while she set the table for us to start dinner. As we all sat and enjoyed the dinner and the conversation, I remembered Mom was possibly still sitting without her panty. I hadn't seen her go to her room.

I dropped my fork at least twice that evening to peek under the table and inside her skirt. No success. My angle was ninety degrees, with Mom sitting on my right and Dad sitting right opposite her.

"You are being clumsy today, son," Dad commented.

Mom teased, "Is that how you handle the football?" Stan chuckled, as did Dad.

I sheepishly looked at my plate and finished my dinner.

Though I am not a great fan of masturbating, I shagged that night like there was no tomorrow, recalling every inch of Mom's body from earlier that evening. I don't remember what time I dozed off, but I dreamt of countless hours kissing, licking, loving, and fucking Mom that night.

I got up late and went to school late the next morning. I had to attend to the major mess I had made in my bed the previous night. Keeping our rooms clean, and taking turns for chores around the house were now par for course for both Stan and me.

If Wednesday was any indication of how Friday would be, then I was happy to drop football and go for tennis seven days a week. I parked that happy thought as I waited eagerly for Mom on Friday at the school's gate.

Before Mom could pick me up for tennis, I had changed into my slacks, in the place of jeans that I had worn for school.

The club was bustling with activity on Friday, with more people socializing, at the club's fancy bar and restaurant than playing. At the courts too there were a few more players as compared to Wednesday. As our booked time approached, the previous pair courteously relinquished the court, nodding in our direction as they departed.

For well over an hour, Mom and I effortlessly pursued the tennis ball, our coordination improving with each session. We quickly found our rhythm, definitely surpassing our previous performance.

We finished our match, fifteen minutes short of our ninety minutes, leaving me with a charged anticipation for what would follow.

Taking a brief rest on the court-side chairs, we observed the next pair as they commenced their game. Seeing me restless, after just a few minutes, Mom suggested, "Shall we go shower?"

I was already on my feet, eager to comply. Mom smiled and made her way toward the club's main building. I followed closely behind, excitement building inside my gut.

The receptionist greeted Mom warmly, handing her the key to room number 9 once again with a couple of mutual nods. Like an eager pup awaiting a treat, I trailed after Mom as we headed towards the section of the complex with the rooms.

It hadn't struck me until that moment as we entered the room, what if Mom chose to carry her change of clothes inside? I held my breath and prayed to the mighty lord.

My jitters gave way to a thumping heart as Mom started to unpack the duffel bag and took out her change of clothes on the bed just as she had done on Wednesday.

Mom went to the bathroom for her shower, and I hastily scoured through her stuff on the bed. I was sitting with her panties near my nose again, eyes closed and completely missed seeing Mom come out of the bathroom.

"Did I get a soiled one again?" Mom sounded concerned, but she gave me an out and did not call me out for playing with her panties. "That's silly of me...."

"I'm sorry Mom." I blurted, almost spontaneously.

Regaining composure was going to be difficult because Mom had again chosen to come out with just a towel around her.

It did not take me long to realize what was going to happen next and for that, I was grinning. Mom made a face as if she had to do this as a compulsion and not a choice. But we both knew that wasn't the case.

Mom pulled her towel off her breasts and started to use it to dry her hair. I thanked the lord. The jiggle of Mom's tits as she rubbed her hair with the towel sent a tsunami of reaction throughout my body. The electricity-like current found its way to my dick which attempted to break loose from its confinement.

Her head was tilted but she chose to ignore my ogling. I had to use my hand to adjust my erection, the other hand gripped Mom's panty tightly.

"Would you be a dear and help me with this Gordie." She calmly asked me as if she was asking me to open a jar. What she was in fact offering was her pink and very thin bra.

I was behind her within a second, eager to help.

What was a déjà vu moment for me -and obviously for her, I clasped the bra on the very first set of hooks, and without her reminding me if it was tight or loose, I moved my hand from her shoulder down in the cup without delay.

"Mom, let me adjust these for you." With reason tabled for my incursion, I moved my palm calmly in the cup of her bra and held Mom's tit in my palm. For the endless and pointless adjustments her breast needed to sit well in the bra cup, I had to be very fastidious.

Of course, I had to repeat this with her other tit also.

Unhappy with the result, I changed the hook strength to the middle, which was what she wanted originally and would have been ideal. But how could I let it be without checking thoroughly. So, in went my hand and tested the placement of both her tits, one at a time. Playing and squeezing while I tried my best to have them nest well in their cover.

The middle hook was an ideal snug, but it was not going to be so with my hand shoved inside. That meant I had to go back to the first hook and repeat the entire exercise, only to belatedly return to the right middle hook and then do a final set of checks from the outside of the bra to see if it was holding well.

Mom was mewing and purring because, as I went along, I had given her nipples multiple twists and turns and squeezes and because I was humping her nude backside with my extra-hard cock. All this while I was kissing and licking her neck and her ear.

The pretense of hooking her bra was an outlandish excuse for playing with boobs to have them fit well.

If the play was the same as the previous instance, how could the result be any different? God, I wish I could have taken my cock out before helping her with the hooks. I could have had my cock rub on her bare skin. With that thought in mind, I was cumming in my slacks as I dry-humped Mom.

I didn't panic and let my quivers settle until the last of the drop was out of my cock. Relaxed, I stepped back but didn't apologize or rush into the bathroom. I gave Mom's breasts a final check, removing invisible creases on the bra cups from the outside. I walked back into the bathroom, leaving Mom shivering in delight.

I put on a full show for her just as she had for me. I came out naked from the bathroom, with a towel in my hand instead of on my waist. I was drying my chest and hair as I calmly walked to the bed and looked for my underwear.

Mom looked in my direction and she threw me the underwear she had been playing with, a wide appreciative smile on her face.

Before we got out of room number 9, I stopped Mom at the door again, brought my lips near her cheek, and said, "Mom, I love you."

"I love you way more." She moved ahead and planted a kiss on my cheek. I wanted one on the lips and moved forward towards her face. She obliged.

Our kiss was not spontaneous, but it developed as we went along. A closed-mouth kiss that she intended turned out to be a full French kiss that I wanted. I sent my tongue forward and nudged her lips. She hesitated for just a fraction and then opened her lips, welcoming my tongue. I let my tongue play inside her mouth and she got her tongue to play duel with mine.

Our kiss ended only because we needed to breathe. My arms around her back were holding her passionately and her arm behind my head was pulling me into her mouth.

Mom, breathing hard, said, "okay honey, let's go now."

Once again, we found ourselves grabbing dinner on the way home, a deviation from Mom's usual preference for home-cooked meals. Twice in a week of dining out was more indulgence than she typically allowed herself.

Life seemed to be going smoothly, or so I thought.

On a quiet Sunday afternoon, Mom, Dad, and I sat on the patio, lost in our own thoughts and phones.

Out of the blue, Mom turned to me and asked, "Gordie, are you planning to pursue that scholarship?"

Usually, discussions about academics were Dad's domain, so Mom's sudden interest caught me off guard.

"Dad said I could still go to college regardless of the scholarship," I replied, my tone shifting to surprise.

Dad, surprisingly, sided with Mom on this one. "Son, just because there's a plan in place doesn't mean you should coast through school."

Not entirely convinced by Dad's line of argument, Mom intervened, her tone firm yet encouraging. "Gordie, I believe you have the potential to excel. I want you to aim for a full scholarship."

Her words were motivating, but I responded half-heartedly, hoping to end the conversation.

However, Mom persisted, insisting I meet her gaze. "Gordie, honey, I want you to achieve that scholarship--not just based on sports, which I am sure you can achieve with minimal effort, but I want you to excel in your SATs, secure strong predictive scores, and aim for an Ivy League college."

Her emphasis on "want" carried a weighty demand, her eyes penetrating directly into my soul.

Speechless, I nodded, sensing Mom's request was layered.

If there was any doubt lingering, Mom assured me, "We'll work with you to prepare. I will work with you." She emphasized the "I" as if foreshadowing what lay ahead.

"Yes, mom."

As her hand touched mine, she continued, "You understand, dear. I believe you can do it. If anyone in this family can, it's you."

"I'll give it my best, Mom," I promised.

She closed the subject with a gentle reminder, still holding my gaze with her warm, inviting, and reassuring eyes, "You know what's at stake if you don't get that scholarship."

Her words lingered, leaving an undeniable sense of responsibility in their wake. She was still looking me in the eye and talking to my soul with sparkling eyes that were warm, inviting, penetrating, and calming at the same time.

What happened a year later, was that I accepted the offer from......

Okay, I am rushing with the story. Let me tell you how I got where I reached.

On the subsequent Wednesday, en route to the club, Mom dropped a surprise: "Gordie, I've shortened our court booking from an hour and a half to just an hour. I don't want us eating out twice a week."

I nodded in agreement, though uncertain about our post-game routine.

During our match, I strategically placed shots, keeping Mom on the move, and causing her to break a sweat.

Mom, always competitive, was genuinely perspiring by the end of the hour. With no one else waiting for the court, we continued playing for an extra ten minutes until our match finished.

Without hesitation, Mom indicated it was time for us to head to the showers, bypassing our usual post-game rest on the chairs.

A polite nod from the receptionist, and Mom received the key to Room 9.

By the time Mom had laid out her evening attire on the bed, she had cooled down and dabbed away some of the sweat with her hand towel.

Mom left her outfit on the bed before heading back into the bathroom for her shower. As expected, I started my inspection. What I saw laid in front of me, was the skimpiest bra and panties I had seen in person. The bra had no more than six square inches of cover for each tit and strings for holding them up. The panties had a similar six square inches of cloth with strings all over.

This was no underwear, it was a bikini, I said to myself.

My heart was beating faster. I was ecstatic.

From the previous week's episodes, I had resolved to change my own tack, but I seemed to have forgotten that altogether.

As soon as I heard the running water from the shower stop, I stood up and shucked my slacks. Standing in the boxers I was taking off my t-shirt when Mom exited the bathroom just like I had the previous week, towel in hand trying to dry herself around her shoulder and drying the hair. She did not bother to exit with a towel wrapped around her.

I was pleasantly surprised seeing Mom's relaxed post-shower naked strut. Mom was a bit surprised when she saw me standing, trying to take my own clothes off. As I had planned, it would seem to her as if I was taking off the clothes to run into the shower as soon as she came out.

I completed the task of pulling the t-shirt off anyway and stood admiring her nude form. I was in love all over again.

Mom recovered from her moment of surprise and said, "These might not have a hook, but I still need your help tying them behind my back."

In fact, I had no intention whatsoever to walk out on helping Mom. If anything, I wanted to ensure I had fewer clothes on me when I was helping so I could feel her skin against mine.

"Sure Mom," I said casually as if I didn't mind the extra labor.

She smiled, seeing through my charade.

I stood behind her, as she took time to wipe off some of the water from her body. She bent forward, leaving me to admire her butt cheeks. Soft globes of white and pink skin invited me to caress and kiss. I resisted.

Mom straightened with her top in hand. She pasted the six square inch cloth around both her areolae and pressed her hands above them, on her breasts. It was upon me to take the strings and figure out how they were to be tied and where.

It did not take a genius to solve that puzzle. Two of the top strings would go behind her neck and two from the side would have to go around her chest to the back.

I managed to pull the strings behind her neck and tie a knot. Mom loosened her hold, and I pulled the strings around her chest to tie a knot behind her.

Of course, I Intentionally tied a knot that left the string around her loose, and that as a result left the six-inch patch flopping around on her breasts. Mom chuckled. As is the right of any craftsman to inspect his work, I snaked my hand in front, from around her to realize the patches weren't holding snugly on her breasts.

I groped and played, leaving the strings even more loose than they were before. I played and kneaded Mom's breasts as if trying to reduce their size for the patches of her bikini top. As much pleasure as they gave me, the plump mammaries, no matter how much I squeezed them, were never going to be contained in that tiny patch of cloth.

"Oh..ho," I exclaimed as if I would have to redo the thing. I untied the lower knot and re-attempted the entire process all over again. Making lots of adjustments around her breasts.

I decided the problem was not with the lower knot, in fact, it was the upper knot behind her neck that was causing all the trouble. I opened that one and re-tied it. As I was tying that knot, I removed Mom's hair on one side and moved closer to her neck, smelled her perfume, and laid down my lips, forgetting the knot for a while. Of course, until I kissed her neck, I had to hold the patch of cloth around her nipples so they wouldn't slip off. But I was more than holding -I was kneading and playing with her breasts, crushing the bikini stuck between her skin and my palms.

Mom purred. I was going about the business of tying the knots like a perfectionist. My well-thought-out plan of removing slacks and t-shirt was also paying off. Her freshly washed skin felt soft, smooth, and warm when I scraped my chest on her back and the front of my thighs on the back of hers. Most importantly, my hard-on, though under a layer of cloth, merrily poked her butt and her lower back.

It must have been many minutes before I got the knots tied and some semblance of the bikini hanging around her neck and on her tits. My dick was standing to attention. Intending to ensure everything was in order, I moved to her front. This kind of specific garment needs lots of detailed placement.

I moved in front of Mom and looked at her face ridden with an artificial frown. Then I bent to get a closer look at her breasts. I raised my hands and started to adjust the patches of cloth. The pieces of cloth from the bikini, even when aligned perfectly, would have covered a few inches outside of her areolae. To be sure I had to check both. I had to remove the patch from around each of her nipples to be sure to get it right. Of course, I had to hold her breasts, test them for jiggle and shuffle to be sure the piece of cloth would hold.

Mom's nipples were standing at attention and begging to be kissed. That's what I did. I bent forward the last few inches to kiss her right nipple in appreciation. Instead, I took Mom's right nipple between my lips. I was not kissing it, I was not licking it, I just rolled it between my lips.

Mom purred and her hands came behind my head. She wasn't pushing me off nor was she pulling but I got the hint. I opened my mouth wide and laid out a thick layer from the base of my tongue on her nipple, scraping not just the nipple but the entire areola around it as well. Mom cooed and the pressure on my head, even though a fraction, was only inward.

I licked and kissed her nipple to my heart's content and moved to try the other one on her left. I gave it the same treatment, the same attention and love. With both the nipples erect I was unwilling to let go.

Mom rolled her hands in my hair, let me have my fun. I could have sworn she was humming. And it was definitely a tune I had heard before. Or maybe it was a lullaby she would sing me when I suckled on her tit, and it was ringing in my head now.

Finally, Mom pulled my head off grudgingly and I looked up at her face. She was smiling. Her eyes gave away the pleasure I had brought to her with my games.

I straightened up and stood facing Mom. She kissed me on the cheek and said, "I hate for you to ask for this extra favor, but it seems I might need some help with this also."

Hot Damn!

Mom was directing me to help her with the string bikini bottom. This was going to be one crazy ride I thought. I am sure she could hear my heart throb.

I took the bottom part of her bikini in my hands and wondered how unbelievably little and light it was.

Mom took the front patch of the bikini and placed it nicely on top of her pussy lips. In doing so she opened her thighs, and I got a detailed, up-close view of her pretty pink pussy. Her lips, down there, glistened with more than water. With the patch in place, she asked me, "honey, stop wasting time and get on with it."

I figured I had to start with tying the knots on her hips and used the same tactic. Getting the first knot perfectly on her left hip. Scraping my knuckles on her hips and feeling a tingle on her skin.

Then I moved to her right hip and took charge of the strings and got a good knot tied but ensured the strings were loose on her waist. Mom released her hand from the bikini patch that covered her pussy lips. My sketchy job resulted in the bikini bottom hanging on the curve of her hips and a few inches lower on her pussy, stuck between her thighs.

Boldly, I took charge, and said, "I think It needs some adjustment." My hand, full palm on her pussy mound, clarified my intent and I moved my right hand lower and onto her pussy.

I was slow enough for Mom to have swatted my hand away yet constantly moving towards the goal. With no rebuke, my hand kept going and my fingers found her pussy lips first.

Mom purred.

Undeterred, my downward journey continued, and I stopped only when I had my full palm around her pussy.

Mom leaned back on my chest, and she nuzzled into my neck.

I leaned forward planting my lips on her right shoulder. My view, down in front of her, was blocked by the two mountains of her beautiful breasts with their peaks pressing from inside the small patch covering the areolae. My hand on Mom's pussy operated on its own instinct and its own eyes. Initially, I just kept it on her pussy, covering it for long luxuriating seconds adding to the anxiety in Mom's belly. She started to quiver.

Then I gave it a slight squeeze. Mom moaned, "mmmmm."

My palm was already collecting the leak and getting wet.

I repeated the squeeze softly and got the same result, a soft moan, "mmmmm" and a few droplets from her pussy.

I began by squeezing my palm on her pussy every few seconds and then slowly brought the squeezes closer together until I was giving it a nice, firm squeeze each second.

Mom was moaning heavily, "mmm...mmm...mmm" with each squeeze.

My middle finger had slipped inside her slit, but I hadn't pushed it inside her pussy yet. It lay embedded inside the slit and all subsequent squeezes on her pussy enhanced her passion.

I should have sent my finger inside, but my mind seemed to be working overtime.

I sent my free left hand into the waistband of my boxers, and I clumsily pushed it down, hoping the ruckus wouldn't trigger Mom off of her trance. So, I increased the pressure on her pussy and got her to moan even more.

A couple of seconds later, with my cock free and boxers around my knees, I moved my hips toward Mom to get contact. It was an unbelievable experience, Mom twitched. I, instinctively, brought my left hand to her tummy and pulled her towards my cock. Her resistance evaporated.

I dry-humped Mom on her lower back with my naked cock on her naked back with my hand on her pussy squeezing heartily now.

Mom was no longer restrained in her moans, "MMMMM...MMMMM..MMMMM."

I would have squirted cum any second now. But I got greedy and wanted more.

I hunched lower trying to move my cock in her butt crack. After a few shoves up and down in her crack, I cocked my hips back and lowered myself, dislodging my lips from her shoulder.

Mom twitched; she understood what I was up to. She was now showing resistance.

"I love you, Mom." I crooned in her ears.

She replied with a louder moan, "MEEEEEE...." conflicted in her thoughts.

"Mom, I am going to make you proud......" I could feel her muscles relax, "I am going to get the scholarship..." She opened her legs.

I let cock go in further under her butt and between her thighs. My damned cock was so hard and angled up that it was impossible to gain entry.

I held Mom from her pussy and gave her an upward heft, I gained inches inside, but I wasn't inside. Mom felt the upward force of my hand on her pussy. I wasn't penetrating her pussy; I was lifting her up.

"Mom...... I am going to get the scholarship and get into Ivy League." I applied upward heave with my hand on her pussy and my butt moved forward. Simultaneously Mom raised herself on tippy toes.

Voila, I pushed and went in.

My cock was now embedded deep between Mom's thighs, the length of my pussy layered right along Mom's slit as my hand gave way to my cock.

Mom would have lost her balance, but she flung her hand back and held on to my head to hold herself straight.

My cock lined along the length of her pussy, and it took me a bit to balance the both of us. Mom was stretching on her tippy toes, and I had hunched down a little.

I re-established my right hand in her groin, this time under the length of my shaft to tighten it along her pussy and increase the squeeze towards her pussy.

Mom moaned her approval.

We slowly rocked back and forth before finding a slow sync.

"Mom, I love you so much..."

"Mmmmmmuaaahhhh." Mom croaked and tensed.

Oh, she was going to cum. I raised my left hand from her belly and moved it up, roughly and carelessly rubbing her breasts. I didn't stop and moved my hand to her chin and her face. I wanted to get her to turn and kiss me, but it wasn't going to be possible with all the fervent movements. Instead, I let my fingers kiss her lips. She moaned and opened her lips and my fingers slipped in.

Mom moaned louder, "MMMMMMUUUUU."

I dug two of my fingers inside her mouth and she sucked on my fingers and started convulsing. I tried my best to hold her still, but she was getting wilder. With both my hands busy, I hunched forward to hold on to her. That made the head of cock move an inch inside her slit. In my mind, I was going to enter her pussy and I started shooting jizz.

Mom groaned feverishly, "UUUUNNGGHH."

I grunted in response.

For Mom, it was an immersive experience like a train running on a track, forward and back. And she went wild and moved about flailing her hands. Her wails were louder, and she was orgasming on my dick.

With a slight angle upwards into her pussy, I was spraying on her pussy and possibly partially inside also.

Both Mom and I fell forward on the bed. It took us a while to unlock the hold before calming down, breathless.

Belatedly, gaining control of the situation, Mom pushed me and said, "You better shower and get ready."

Mom cleaned herself up with the towel. I showered and returned. I picked my change of clothes to wear in front of her. We got going soon after.

On the door, I made sure I stopped and kissed her. She allowed me a proper French kiss tonguing my way around inside her mouth.

"Mom, I promise..." I assured her that I wasn't fibbing.

Mom handed the key back at the reception. We were home half an hour later and Mom prepared dinner and the four of us ate together.

The next week was no different, Mom brought along skimpier underwear or a bikini, for our post-tennis shower time. I repeated the post-shower boning of Mom's slit and got Mom to climax each of those times.

The Wednesday after that week, Mom had laid down the tiny underwear and her dress that she intended to wear after her shower. Neither of us was in doubt about what would happen next. Until she came out, I would play with her underwear, smell it, and relish the fact that the panty would soon be snuggly hugging her pussy. By the time she would come out, I would have taken my clothes off, including my Y-fronts. When she would come out, naked, and ask for help with ties or hooking her top, I would instead be playing with her until we both climaxed. My fingers would be inside her pussy, or my dick would be railing on her slit.

Just thinking what would happen, had my dick stand at attention. The confidence of a hormone-riddled nineteen-year-old is something else. I did shuck my clothes but instead of waiting for Mom to come out, I decided to join her in her shower.

I was almost confident Mom hadn't latched the door. She hadn't.

To not raise the alarm, I opened the door as slowly as possible. The sound of trickling water grew louder in my ears.

I already knew the shower section of our en-suite was large enough for the two of us.

I was not as silent in opening the shower door as I was in closing the bathroom door.

Mom half turned to look towards me entering. She wasn't surprised but also didn't say anything, acknowledging my presence.

Thankfully she hadn't looked me in the eye yet and suddenly it struck me to explain myself, no matter how ludicrous the excuse, "Mom, I thought you might need my help with scrubbing your back also."

Mom smiled, and she handed me the loofah from her hand and said, "Oh, that's very thoughtful of you, honey...here."

Dang! I had permission to play with her in the shower. And that I did.

I did start with an earnest scrub, even as water trickled on top of our heads and then on our bodies. But that lasted no more than a minute, I was mauling her wet breasts with my hands, playing heavily with those love-filled melons. My forehead nestled in Mom's neck.

Mom helpfully raised herself on her toes, inviting me. I bent my knees and my cock had nestled on her slit, from her front for the first time. If railing her from behind was great, this was bliss.

I pulled and pushed my hips to move my cock on her slit. The water splashing freely on our bodies accorded a wonderful sensation.

As my push and pulls became persuasive, Mom had got pinned to the wall. I picked pace but remained on her slit. Mom moaned her approval, "Ooooh, Gordiee." I was delighted that she called out my name with a sexual reference.

The wonderful advantage of doing it from the front was that the erection was angled upwards and the railing between Mom's slit allowed an extra depth, even when it was coursing just between the pussy lips.

Mom knew it too. Every few strokes when my cock ventured an extra centimeter inside her or when the crown dared to enter her pussy, she would drop her heel a little, lowering her body and I would lose the angle.

I wasn't intending to fuck her, not yet. She knew it too. Doing it standing up has its own natural anatomical nuances. I was more than sure she knew how to manage the situation.

Mom sensed I was close to spraying along her slit. Along with her tip-toeing that had given my cock access to her slit, Mom put her hand on the water faucet and gave herself some support. I felt a slight reduction in tension in her body on account of that. Assuming it was for trying to find extra support -- maybe because she was tired of standing on her tippy toes -- I railed her slit harder because I was close.

I groaned; a signal for my jizz to start spraying. Mom looked into my eyes.

I was going to shoot my cum along her slit when Mom managed an athletic maneuver I would want to salute. Just when my crown was facing upwards less than a fraction of an inch inside Mom's pussy, she hefted herself a little bit extra with the help of push on the faucet on the wall. My cock lost its rail track of a slit but was aiming firmly upwards into Mom's pussy, with just the top part of my crown inside her pussy lips.

I started convulsing and my spray started going inside Mom. I was euphoric and looked towards God to thank him and then I shut my eyes to feel the pulsing sensation.

My cock pulsed and jerked, but Mom managed to keep her weight lifted, accommodating most of what I was sending inside her.

I opened my eyes and saw Mom's eyes shut tight. She held my head, an arm around it. Then just as Mom felt my cum inside her, she started to spasm.

Mom moaned, "MUUUUUAAAH."

Afraid that she might lose her elevated stance, she dug her elbow into my shoulder, stayed up as long as she could, and continued to climax.

She moaned again, "MuUUnnnnhhhh." Then her orgasm grew inside her and she let out a louder wail, "GoDDDDDD."

Mom desperately wanted to let herself sink on my cock but resisted. Her arms gave up and she started to descend but thinking like an athlete she pulled her butt an extra inch back and instead of dropping on my cock she settled on her feet. My cock angled achingly, scraping her belly - mashed between us.

Mom was still convulsing and spasming as she settled down on her feet, unable to speak or say anything. I was no different. The current in my cock hadn't discharged fully but I was determined to take charge, lest she falls and hits something.

We stayed there under the water embracing and swaying in the after-climax mood.

Thinking on account of Mom, I stepped back from the shower, shut off the knob. Then held her hand until she was out of the shower door and then lifted her in my arms.

Mom happily climbed into my arms and nestled her head in my neck, cooing the appreciation with a kiss on my neck.

I laid her on the bed and scrambled for a towel.

I started to dab her with the towel, removing water from her body, one droplet at a time. When it was the turn of her breasts, I dabbed the water but replaced saliva on them instead. I cleaned her tit, then licked it clean, then toweled it again, then kissed it. I repeated this with the other tit.

Mom was purring.

I managed to repeat this performance of dab, lick, clean on her tummy. Before I could move lower, Mom said, "Gordie, enough with the games. It's time to head home."

I ignored her and moved lower.

Mom shut her thighs to tell me what she wanted. I had to comply, but I kissed her the pussy mound before getting up.

I spent much less time that evening getting the bra tied up. Mom ignored my help with her panties, and we were off to home.

At the door of room number 9, I practiced my tongue kissing with Mom which she happily obliged.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you way more, honey," she replied warmly, her hand on my cheek.

As Mom returned the keys to the reception desk, she paused to exchange a few words with the receptionist.

Standing a few feet behind her, I glanced around and noticed the walls of the hallway adorned with venerable photos and pictures. Despite my countless visits, I had never taken notice of them earlier. Amongst the array of images, my gaze settled on one in particular -- a portrait of our grandfather. I stepped closer to confirm - the name below the photo indeed was his, Mr. Harold Keen. In the picture, he appeared to be in his forties, a stark contrast to my memories of him with grey hair and a more weathered appearance. Nevertheless, his handsome features and business-like demeanor remained unchanged.

When Mom approached me, I was looking at his photo. "Why is Grandpa's photo here?" I inquired; curiosity piqued.

A tad bit flustered, Mom hesitated briefly before responding, "Because he was a grand old man." With that, she gently pulled me towards our car, leaving my questions unanswered.

Though not particularly bothered by the exchange, I couldn't shake off my curiosity.

On our ride back, Mom was way too liberal with her legs and the skirt of her dress. I caressed her thighs for the first time in the car. If I tried to move up, she swatted my hand away. I contended myself with the calming effect of the soft inside of her thigh in my hand. My knuckles and the back of my fingers brushed her other thigh.

Come Friday, I joined Mom again in the shower at the club. It ended in the same manner.

---

Part 2