06-11-2019, 08:09 AM
“Sure Dad.”
“Great. Thanks son.”
I walked carefully across the room and up the stairs, trying not to spill the hot chocolate. I knew about Mom and her hair, that’s for sure. Because of the red highlights, Mom’s long, thick and full-bodied head of hair was especially beautiful in the sunlight but if it wasn’t brushed it lost its shine and hung flat. This had a dramatic effect on the way Mom felt about herself, especially because her hair compensated for a lack of prominent assets in the chest area. She did have very nice legs, at least my dad was always saying so, but she thought they were too thin and was convinced his compliments simply confirmed that he thought her breasts were too small. So Dad had learned not to say anything. Thankfully, I wasn’t expected to say.
Mom’s door was open and she was sitting in front of the mirrored dresser brushing her hair. As I approached, I stepped around her discarded robe which looked like it had been tossed toward the bed but fell short and sprawled on the floor. Mom was dressed in a pale blue nightdress I had seen before, though I could only see the bit covering her hips and the lower six inches of her back; the rest was covered by her hair.
Mom’s eyes looked up when I entered and her expression softened.
“Oh Michael, you didn’t need to do that.” Mom always called me Michael and Dad always called me Mike.
“No problem, not for my favorite lady,” I sucked up, hoping to drain Mom’s anger though I knew she would already be feeling sorry about getting mad at Dad.
“That’s so sweet,” Mom said as I put her mug down on the dresser in front of her. “Will you stay for a few minutes with me?”
“Sure.” I took my mug over to the bed and sat down, tossing the tray behind me. I sipped hot chocolate and watched Mom brush her hair after taking a small drink from her mug.
“Is Dad mad at me?” she asked, pulling the brush slowly through her hair.
“You know he’s not,” I answered, causing a slight smile that conveyed both relief and acknowledgement that she knew this to be true.
With each stroke of the brush, her breasts stretched up to strain against the front of her nightdress, starkly outlining their form for a brief moment before her descending arm relaxed the material sufficiently to camouflage her feminine physique. As I drank my hot chocolate, my eyes were drawn again and again to this exposition but I thought nothing more of it than to note that there was more there to meet the eye than Mom thought. It was strange to notice this feature of my mother with such platonic regard, for I wasn’t feeling anything sexual about it. I just noted, with some surprise, that from this vantage point, Mom’s breasts were more substantial than I had thought.
Mom took her second drink and looked over to smile at me but she didn’t say anything. Feeling suddenly self conscious, I drained my mug in one gulp and stood to leave. As I walked behind Mom, she thanked me again for being so thoughtful. Something made me stop. I leaned past Mom, set my empty mug beside hers, and stopped her hand in mid-stroke, relieving her of the brush.
“I’ll do it for you Mom,” I quietly offered my services.
“You don’t have to do that, Michael.”
“I want to. Let me do it for you Mom.”
“Great. Thanks son.”
I walked carefully across the room and up the stairs, trying not to spill the hot chocolate. I knew about Mom and her hair, that’s for sure. Because of the red highlights, Mom’s long, thick and full-bodied head of hair was especially beautiful in the sunlight but if it wasn’t brushed it lost its shine and hung flat. This had a dramatic effect on the way Mom felt about herself, especially because her hair compensated for a lack of prominent assets in the chest area. She did have very nice legs, at least my dad was always saying so, but she thought they were too thin and was convinced his compliments simply confirmed that he thought her breasts were too small. So Dad had learned not to say anything. Thankfully, I wasn’t expected to say.
Mom’s door was open and she was sitting in front of the mirrored dresser brushing her hair. As I approached, I stepped around her discarded robe which looked like it had been tossed toward the bed but fell short and sprawled on the floor. Mom was dressed in a pale blue nightdress I had seen before, though I could only see the bit covering her hips and the lower six inches of her back; the rest was covered by her hair.
Mom’s eyes looked up when I entered and her expression softened.
“Oh Michael, you didn’t need to do that.” Mom always called me Michael and Dad always called me Mike.
“No problem, not for my favorite lady,” I sucked up, hoping to drain Mom’s anger though I knew she would already be feeling sorry about getting mad at Dad.
“That’s so sweet,” Mom said as I put her mug down on the dresser in front of her. “Will you stay for a few minutes with me?”
“Sure.” I took my mug over to the bed and sat down, tossing the tray behind me. I sipped hot chocolate and watched Mom brush her hair after taking a small drink from her mug.
“Is Dad mad at me?” she asked, pulling the brush slowly through her hair.
“You know he’s not,” I answered, causing a slight smile that conveyed both relief and acknowledgement that she knew this to be true.
With each stroke of the brush, her breasts stretched up to strain against the front of her nightdress, starkly outlining their form for a brief moment before her descending arm relaxed the material sufficiently to camouflage her feminine physique. As I drank my hot chocolate, my eyes were drawn again and again to this exposition but I thought nothing more of it than to note that there was more there to meet the eye than Mom thought. It was strange to notice this feature of my mother with such platonic regard, for I wasn’t feeling anything sexual about it. I just noted, with some surprise, that from this vantage point, Mom’s breasts were more substantial than I had thought.
Mom took her second drink and looked over to smile at me but she didn’t say anything. Feeling suddenly self conscious, I drained my mug in one gulp and stood to leave. As I walked behind Mom, she thanked me again for being so thoughtful. Something made me stop. I leaned past Mom, set my empty mug beside hers, and stopped her hand in mid-stroke, relieving her of the brush.
“I’ll do it for you Mom,” I quietly offered my services.
“You don’t have to do that, Michael.”
“I want to. Let me do it for you Mom.”
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)