04-11-2019, 01:56 PM
I wore shorter skirts and dresses without pantyhose and sometimes went without underwear so the shape and motion of my buttocks would be easier to discern, but only when Don wasn’t home. I oiled my bare legs and practised crossing them, pausing briefly to maximize the effect when they were open, and tensing my calf muscles unnecessarily to make them look sexy whether crossed or not.
Amazingly, Don didn’t notice the short skirts or the motion of my breasts. Nor did he question why the coffee table was six inches closer to the couch. I often rested my feet on the table in the evening but now braced them on the edge rather than laying them flat, to tighten rather than relax the muscles in my legs. With feet closer to the couch my knees rose higher, allowing my dress to slide down my raised thighs to reveal more glistening, well-oiled leg than was appropriate, even in the privacy of home — especially when my son was present.
I should say, my attentive son, for my weeks of effort had paid off and I measured my daily success not just in the count of surreptitious looks or even in the achievement of an erection, for that was expected. I now sought to prolong your arousal as long as possible, keeping you downstairs doing meaningless chores.
Then I sought your help with my crossword puzzles and, of course, got you to sit beside me. I kept you there for hours, feigning intense interest while using the bottom of the magazine to work my dress higher. At times, it neared my crotch and I was glad the magazine hid its raunchy state from your father’s eyes, should he ever bother to look. When I was stuck, as happened often, I lifted the magazine closer to my face to scrutinize the clues leaving my thighs open for your leisurely inspection. Sometimes I dragged my dress so high my panties were exposed. I went further, lifting one foot from the table to wiggle my toes and tense my calf muscles but the main reason was to stretch my panties tightly across my pussy.
It was shameless! I knew I was being a horrible mother but couldn’t stop. In the afternoon I rented as watched series in which an aristocratic mother repeatedly satisfied her married son. She was evil but I was only playing a harmless game. It was fun, and okay because nothing had actually happened.
Like any addict, I didn’t realize how far gone I was, not even when I began removing my panties after dinner before sitting down to do a crossword. I knew you were aware something was up because I was too worked up to keep the tension out of my breathing.
Amazingly, Don didn’t notice the short skirts or the motion of my breasts. Nor did he question why the coffee table was six inches closer to the couch. I often rested my feet on the table in the evening but now braced them on the edge rather than laying them flat, to tighten rather than relax the muscles in my legs. With feet closer to the couch my knees rose higher, allowing my dress to slide down my raised thighs to reveal more glistening, well-oiled leg than was appropriate, even in the privacy of home — especially when my son was present.
I should say, my attentive son, for my weeks of effort had paid off and I measured my daily success not just in the count of surreptitious looks or even in the achievement of an erection, for that was expected. I now sought to prolong your arousal as long as possible, keeping you downstairs doing meaningless chores.
Then I sought your help with my crossword puzzles and, of course, got you to sit beside me. I kept you there for hours, feigning intense interest while using the bottom of the magazine to work my dress higher. At times, it neared my crotch and I was glad the magazine hid its raunchy state from your father’s eyes, should he ever bother to look. When I was stuck, as happened often, I lifted the magazine closer to my face to scrutinize the clues leaving my thighs open for your leisurely inspection. Sometimes I dragged my dress so high my panties were exposed. I went further, lifting one foot from the table to wiggle my toes and tense my calf muscles but the main reason was to stretch my panties tightly across my pussy.
It was shameless! I knew I was being a horrible mother but couldn’t stop. In the afternoon I rented as watched series in which an aristocratic mother repeatedly satisfied her married son. She was evil but I was only playing a harmless game. It was fun, and okay because nothing had actually happened.
Like any addict, I didn’t realize how far gone I was, not even when I began removing my panties after dinner before sitting down to do a crossword. I knew you were aware something was up because I was too worked up to keep the tension out of my breathing.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)