Incest The Mom Memories" by 'alwayswantedto' collection

[sarit11]

Brushing Mom’s Hair

Ch. 2 Dad sleeps while son brushes Mom’s hair again.

 by alwayswantedto

 
All characters are 18 years or older.
 
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I didn’t avoid Mom the next day. Not on your life. At breakfast and dinner I tried to send private messages to Mom through meaningful glances but she was oblivious to every one. Not once did I receive an acknowledgement of any kind. Mom didn’t flash me a secret smile or glance, or avert her eyes in sudden discomfort upon interpreting an uncomfortable signal. She was the same mother I had known every day of my life.
 
I hadn’t known what to expect. At first, I was apprehensive because I thought she might be angry with me, that I had forced myself upon her and she had to do what she did so Dad wouldn’t know. But then I remembered the way things had ended and I felt eager to engage her in anticipation of another wonderful evening brushing her hair. The last thing I expected was no change at all.
 
But that’s the way it was. Mom largely ignored when I got home after school, responding only when necessary to my atypical chit chat with her. I gave up and went to my room, as I normally did. Mom’s interaction with Dad was typical and she dealt with me the way she always did after I came downstairs to wait for dinner. Dinner … you guessed it … was exactly the same as any other dinner. Mom chatted about her day, asked Dad about his and me about mine and then she and Dad went to the living room while I cleaned up the table, loaded the dishwasher, and cleaned the counters before joining them to watch some TV.
 
Mom totally ignored my hints about her hair, my attempts to catch her attention, and my long looks at her legs and small breasts. Eventually, I became disgruntled and left for my room to blow off my built-up tension by killing something on the computer.
 
Was this it? Was last night a one-timer? Did she think the easiest way to handle it to pretend it didn’t happen? She hadn’t responded to any of my references to her hair. Though I hadn’t explicitly asked her if she wanted it brushed, she didn’t pick up on the hint. She couldn’t have missed the obvious request so the answer must be no, she didn’t want her hair brushed.
 
I was startled by the quiet knock on my door. Mom came in before I could answer, carrying a mug of hot chocolate. She brought over and set it down on the desk, her hand reaching out to rest across on my shoulders while she looked at the computer screen and the game I was playing. I thanked her for the drink.