06-11-2019, 08:46 AM
Wouldn’t it be nice to say that the next day was the same? That Mom continued playing the same innocent “I’m just your mom” game until her evening mutation into my woman. But the next day was different. The first day I had tried so hard to make a special connection, and the second day I resigned myself to the “I’m just your mom” gig, but the third day was Saturday and all of us were home all day.
One difference was that I stayed home whereas usually I hung out with my friends until dinner and then went out again. Typically, I was home no more than an hour after I got up and though Dad didn’t seem to notice anything different, Mom certainly did. She seemed antsy but didn’t say anything directly, instead asking how such and such a friend was, and I haven’t seen so and so for a long time … that kind of thing. But I didn’t bite on her ploy to ferret out an explanation for why I was staying home.
It took me a while but it eventually dawned on me that Mom was having trouble ignoring me. She wasn’t angry about me making suggestive remarks, or casting long yearning glances her way. Unlike the first day, I wasn’t doing any of that. It was as if my mere presence bothered her. To be clear, she didn’t seem angry or upset in that way. It was more like she was having difficulty acting normal with me constantly there, as if she couldn’t concentrate because she was aware of me all the time. I think I was making her excited.
It was in her mannerism somehow that I couldn’t precisely define. In her voice, for sure. There was a nervousness, a fragility that made her voice sound as if she was holding her breath, like she might if she was stepping gingerly over some sharp pebbles.
I tried hard not to glance her way and probably didn’t succeed but I certainly didn’t leer or let my eyes dwell on her body. But neither did I leave. I stayed near her. At one point late in the morning, when Dad left the kitchen to visit the bathroom, I sauntered over to where she was standing and stood beside her.
Looking out the window as she was, I casually remarked, “You look really nice today Mom.”
“Oh?” she replied wistfully.
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t know what it is but there’s something special about you today.”
I didn’t touch her or say anything more. I left it at that. When I heard Dad approaching I simply walked away, outside, signaling my understanding that this special moment was over, that it wasn’t to be shared with anyone no matter how close or important. It’s hard to describe but that quiet moment seemed more intimate than the previous night when I lay on top of her with my softening cock still dripping between her legs. The connection was ephemeral yet concrete and enduring.
Later that afternoon, long after lunch, I was standing in the same spot looking out the back window watching Dad gardening in the back yard near the greenhouse. Mom came in quietly behind me and I didn’t notice her until she stood beside me, resting one hand on the counter in front of us. She looked out the window just as Dad stood and carried something into the greenhouse, leaned my way and pressed her hip against mine, curling her arm around my waist to rest her hand on my hip.
One difference was that I stayed home whereas usually I hung out with my friends until dinner and then went out again. Typically, I was home no more than an hour after I got up and though Dad didn’t seem to notice anything different, Mom certainly did. She seemed antsy but didn’t say anything directly, instead asking how such and such a friend was, and I haven’t seen so and so for a long time … that kind of thing. But I didn’t bite on her ploy to ferret out an explanation for why I was staying home.
It took me a while but it eventually dawned on me that Mom was having trouble ignoring me. She wasn’t angry about me making suggestive remarks, or casting long yearning glances her way. Unlike the first day, I wasn’t doing any of that. It was as if my mere presence bothered her. To be clear, she didn’t seem angry or upset in that way. It was more like she was having difficulty acting normal with me constantly there, as if she couldn’t concentrate because she was aware of me all the time. I think I was making her excited.
It was in her mannerism somehow that I couldn’t precisely define. In her voice, for sure. There was a nervousness, a fragility that made her voice sound as if she was holding her breath, like she might if she was stepping gingerly over some sharp pebbles.
I tried hard not to glance her way and probably didn’t succeed but I certainly didn’t leer or let my eyes dwell on her body. But neither did I leave. I stayed near her. At one point late in the morning, when Dad left the kitchen to visit the bathroom, I sauntered over to where she was standing and stood beside her.
Looking out the window as she was, I casually remarked, “You look really nice today Mom.”
“Oh?” she replied wistfully.
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t know what it is but there’s something special about you today.”
I didn’t touch her or say anything more. I left it at that. When I heard Dad approaching I simply walked away, outside, signaling my understanding that this special moment was over, that it wasn’t to be shared with anyone no matter how close or important. It’s hard to describe but that quiet moment seemed more intimate than the previous night when I lay on top of her with my softening cock still dripping between her legs. The connection was ephemeral yet concrete and enduring.
Later that afternoon, long after lunch, I was standing in the same spot looking out the back window watching Dad gardening in the back yard near the greenhouse. Mom came in quietly behind me and I didn’t notice her until she stood beside me, resting one hand on the counter in front of us. She looked out the window just as Dad stood and carried something into the greenhouse, leaned my way and pressed her hip against mine, curling her arm around my waist to rest her hand on my hip.
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