Page 02
A spike of fear struck my solar plexus but then I realized she couldn't be referring to my illicit brushes. If she had noticed them, she would have done something about it. She must have meant I shouldn't ogle the pictures so much.
As Mom was twisted around to get more pictures, I casually pulled the blanket so it fell into her lap, exposing her t-shirt and the charms underneath. Mom paid no mind and when she turned back, I was pleased to see that her breasts seemed to have swelled from the warmth of the blanket.
After a few more pictures, Mom grabbed my arm and swung it over her shoulder and snuggled closer to me. Soon, we had pictures strewn all around, secure in the knowledge that Dad wouldn't be coming downstairs again. One or the other of us would pick up a picture and both of us would hold it, our fingers pinching each side. This allowed me to brush Mom's breast regularly. I took to finding pictures lying on the floor on the far side of Mom where I had to lean across to get them, allowing a full, inadvertent forearm brush across her chest. My mouth was dry with fear the first time I did it, thinking it was pretty obvious but nevertheless proceeding, but when Mom didn't respond, I became quite cavalier.
Eventually, we stopped looking a pictures, or I should say, Mom did, and started watching the movie which was now more than halfway through. Mom slipped down on her pillows and turned toward me. With my arm on her shoulder, I pulled her closer and she cuddled into my side. After a while, I looked down and she seemed to be asleep, she wasn't watching the movie at all. I pulled her even closer and she twisted onto her side and hugged herself to my body, her loose breasts splaying apart, one on my chest and the other pressing into my side. We stayed like that until the end of the movie. I didn't try to touch Mom's breasts as I had no 'excuse' for such a touch. When the credits started to roll, Mom opened her eyes.
"Oh, gosh. I must have fallen asleep."
"Yup," I confirmed. "You were out for a while."
Mom got up onto her knees and then, facing me, she arched her back and stretched her arms high, pulling her t-shirt out of her jeans and exposing her tummy. There was definitely a large gap between her skin and the jeans. She held her pose in a long, yawning stretch, face turned up to the ceiling, inadvertently letting me examine her breasts at my leisure. I didn't quite manage to look away when she finally slumped forward, breasts bunching in front of my eyes, but Mom didn't see where I was looking, or at least pretended not to in order to avoid an embarrassing moment.
"I guess we better put these pictures away so Dad doesn't see them."
Mom began gathering the pictures up. I did too but was more interested in movement under her t-shirt.
"Why does Dad get so upset about these pictures, Mom?"
"He just does," Mom replied. She stopped and looked at me with furrowing brows. "You won't say anything to him will you?"
"No."
"Make sure you don't."
"I won't."
"Good boy."
Mom swung her knee over to straddle my legs and leaned down to kiss the top of my head, her breasts bumping against the front of my face. She probably didn't notice but I sure did.
"You really like looking at the pictures, don't you Mom?"
"Yes," she answered, picking up the last few photos. "They remind me of those times and that relaxes me, but it makes me sad too."
"You weren't sad tonight."
Mom paused and looked at me. "You're right. I think that was because I had someone to share them with."
"Why don't we look at them again tomorrow night," I suggested.
"Are you sure?" Mom asked, obviously pleased.
"Yeah. I like looking at them too."
"Ok, you're on."
****
I only worked a half shift the next day and it was one of Mom's days off; she only worked three days a week. When I came home, she was in the kitchen, making bread, wearing her t-shirt and jeans. I sat at one end of the kitchen table. A few minutes later, Mom put a large wooden pallet on the table and asked me to move. I complained.
"Come on, Scott. You're in the way. I need to knead the dough."
"Can't you do it on the counter?"
"No, it's too high and hard on my back."
"Well, do it here then. I don't mind."
"Alright, smarty pants."
Mom positioned the pallet close to me, plopped down a huge mass of dough, and began kneading, clearly trying to make me sufficiently uncomfortable to move. But I wasn't bugged. I watched her, or should I say, I watched my favorite new toys jostle about as Mom worked the dough. After a while, Mom realized I wasn't going to move and slowed to a steadier, less hurried pace. We started chatting about our respective days and then about her life on the commune. My steady observation of her now more gently moving breasts continued, unacknowledged. It was just part of the scene.
During one pause in the conversation, after Mom got another pile of dough, I said, "You're getting your t-shirt in the dough."
I reached under Mom's tummy and pushed the lower edge of her t-shirt up, pinching it in my fingers and keeping it off the dough. It was an outrageous thing to do but Mom just kept kneading the dough and we began talking again as if it was a perfectly natural, helpful thing for me to do. As Mom progressed, I gathered more and more of her t-shirt in my fist until it was held tight against her breasts, restricting their movement but emphasizing their outline. My hand was now moving back and forth with the movement of Mom's torso, and constantly bumping against the bottom of her breasts.
It was a marvelous experience. My hand kept bumping against the bottom swell of one or the other breast, but usually both, slipping a little between, while Mom and I kept talking as if nothing was amiss. I was a little sad when Mom finished that last pile of dough but was too excited to stay down for more than a moment. I followed Mom over to the counter, hardly conscious of the hardness in my jeans, and curled my arms around Mom's shoulders to hug her from behind. I was careful, however, to keep my hips back to avoid contact with Mom's behind.
"Are we going to look at pictures again tonight."
"If you like."
"I like." I let my arms fall a bit until they were lightly resting across the top of Mom's breasts.
"But make sure you don't mention it in front of your father."
"I promise I won't." I squeezed, pressing down on Mom's breasts, then let her go.
That night started just like the previous evening. Mom followed Dad upstairs and returned dressed in t-shirt and old jeans, a blanket draped over her arm. I had already stacked pillows against the front of the couch, some for her and a couple for me. Mom smiled and sat down beside me, wiggling about until she was comfortably settled in the pillows.
"You're going to get bored," she said, pulling the box of pictures out. "You're seen most of these."
"I won't get bored," I replied. "I have an idea. I'll pick a picture, and you'll tell me a story about it. Then it will all be new."
Mom's eyes danced. "That's a great idea. That's so cool."
"Keep the box hidden, in case Dad comes down," I suggested, bringing us closer in our mutual conspiracy. We both knew that, barring an emergency, that would never happen.
I switched the TV to a movie channel and then stretched across Mom and around the end of the couch to pick a picture out of the box. My arm pressed Mom's breasts tight against her chest as I rummaged around.
"Scott," Mom admonished me.
"Got one," I responded innocently, holding it in front for Mom to see.
Mom thought for a moment, then recounted a little escapade that went along with the picture. She seemed thrilled with this new game and was eager for me to pick another one. After that, I hid the picture, flipping it up at the last minute for her to see, saying she only had a few seconds to look at it before recounting a story. Mom liked that idea and I liked the idea of hiding the picture, which I did by pressing it down against the front of her shirt.
Three pictures later I made Mom close her eyes while she remembered and related each story. Not long after that I stopped just pressing the pictures into Mom's chest just below her neck and began resting it on the top of one of her boobs. And finally, I started holding the picture that way but held between thumb and index finger so when I pressed it to her breast, my palm hung below, lightly cupping her breast. Mom seemed unaware of this during the recounting of each tale and I, in my reverie, hardly heard a word she said, almost my entire brain focused on the tactile sensations emanating from my palm. I was sure Mom's breasts felt tighter, more firm, and was convinced her nipples were more prominent under the thin cotton of the t-shirt.
We were both startled at the sound of Dad's door opening upstairs. Mom flung the blanket over herself to hide her t-shirt and jeans and I, almost too late, managed to slide the picture I was holding, which I dropped in panic, under the couch. As usual, Dad walked straight into the kitchen, on a mission, without glancing our way.
"What are you watching tonight?" Dad asked, after exiting the kitchen to wait for the kettle to boil.
Mom looked confused.
"Bridge on the River Kwai," I answered.
Dad looked at Mom in surprise. "You're watching a war movie?" He seemed astonished.
"We're bonding," I replied for her. "Tomorrow I have to watch a chick flick."
"Ah, yes. The perpetual give and take," Dad murmured.
He stood watching for a few minutes, then went in to make his tea when the kettle boiled. As soon as he disappeared, Mom grasped my hand under the blanket and squeezed, pulling it up onto her stomach, below her breasts. She looked at me and mouthed, 'Thank you.'
Suddenly she let go as Dad appeared through the doorway. My hand dropped a couple of inches onto Mom's stomach and slid down a little more before I checked its movement as Dad turned into the living room instead of going upstairs. He stood beside me watching the movie. The hair on my arms whan I realized that my hand had slid under the waistband of Mom's jeans and was now resting on her bare tummy. I dared not move in case I drew Dad's attention. Mom, rigid beside me, must have been experiencing a similar tension.
"I haven't seen this for years," Dad said, slowly settling on the couch beside me.
Oh, no. I held my hand as still as I could. Glancing down, I could see its vague form under the blanket. I moved it slightly lower to diminish its profile but that stretched it out further and I felt the tips of my fingers come into contact with the elastic edge of Mom's panties. My eyes strained sideways seeking Mom's reaction but she was still as stone.
Well, not quite, I could feel the rise and fall of her tummy as she breathed, and it seemed her breathing, restrained as it was, was no more normal than my own.
"I really like this part," Dad said.
I lowered my arm to further flatten my hand, stretching it deeper into Mom's jeans, past the waistband and onto the edge of a puffy rise.
"Yeah, this is really good," Dad whispered.
Mom wiggled, moving her shoulders higher against the back of the couch, trying to pinch the blanket that was threatening to fall down and possibly expose her taboo outfit. My fingers took advantage of this distraction, sliding deeper onto the puffy rise. I was cupping Mom's mound!
Mom sucked in her breath. Though she was very tense, I could not detect any reaction on her part to indicate she thought this unfortunate turn of events was due to anything but her own movement to secure the blanket.
Foolishly putting this hypothesis to the test, I pressed my finger down with the slightest pressure, hoping it wouldn't be detected as a deliberate move. I eased the pressure, then reapplied, released and reapplied, then again, and again, all super slowly, as if the pulsing pressure was the result of Mom's own breathing. Indeed, her short, shallow breaths did produce a palpitating movment in her tummy, a faint pulse that was barely there, to be sure. Certainly not voluntary, but it was there nonetheless.
I almost gurgled in excitement and continued applying minute presses, faint but regular, and thrilled to the equally timid responses. I dared to nudge my longest finger to the side, slipping into a shallow, dampish groove. A harder press registered an equal reaction. I wiggled my finger ever so slightly on each subsequent press and, though this could hardly be conceived as natural, received a satisfyingly firmer upward press. Our presses and releases became constant and consistent and I almost forgot about my father until he suddenly stood up.
"Well, can't sit around watching TV all night. Some of us have work to do. Good night," he said, striding toward the stairs.
"Good night," I croaked.
Mom didn't reply. I turned tentatively toward her, afraid to meet her eyes. To my relief, they were closed tight. I pressed my finger down firmly. No reaction except for equally firm resistance. Again, I pressed down, and again, adding a little more wiggle. A stronger response. Down, and wiggle. Firmer push back.
Press, press, press. Push, push, push. Wiggle, dig, dig, wiggle, dig. Mom was breathing rapidly now and I was breathing harshly too. I pushed my hand deeper into Mom's crotch, cupping her firmly. There was no pretense now. I dug my finger rapidly in and out of that damp groove, dragging it in long rubs up and down. Mom was quivering under my touch and pushing up hard. She was gasping as loud as I. Suddenly, she tensed and pushed hard against my finger and I pressed it firmly down, keeping it hard against her straining mound. I turned toward her and started coming in my jeans as Mom vibrated against my hand, her damp panties partly folding over my insolent finger. Seconds later, she relaxed, collapsing into the pillows and I slumped against her. We lay like that for a minute or so before Mom moved to get up and I pulled away to make room.
"I think that's enough pictures for tonight," she said as she got up, avoiding my eyes.
"Yeah," I agreed. "I'm kind of tired too."
Mom picked up the box of pictures while I turned off the TV. We walked upstairs together, not talking, and not looking at each other. Mom went into her room and I walked past Dad's study, noting that the light still on under the door, and on to my room. I struggled to get to sleep, trying to understand what had just happened, worrying about what the next day would bring. I resolved to apologize to Mom as soon as I could.
****
I couldn't get Mom alone the next day to say I was sorry. We all worked and she left with Dad. I tried to get off early to get home sooner but couldn't. Right after supper, Mom disappeared upstairs. I cleaned up the kitchen myself and then went upstairs to see her. Her bedroom door was closed. I was about to knock but chickened out. Instead, I went to my room and changed into an old t-shirt and some sweat pants, the closest get up I could think of to a hippyish outfit. I approached Mom's room. The door was open but she wasn't in her room. I proceeded downstairs and ran into Dad coming up the stairs. It was early for him to be on his way to his study. He was muttering to himself.
"Have you seen Mom?"
"Downstairs," he grumbled. "Better go watch your chick flick, she's already starting it."
I stepped onto the landing and turned down the main flight of stairs. I could see Mom already stretched out in front of the couch, holding the remote. The living room was lit by a single lamp. Mom turned and smiled as I approached, adjusting the blanket over her legs.
"You looked relaxed," she observed my dress.
"Yeah. It's comfortable."
Her demeanor should have relaxed me but I started freaking out about what I had to say. Should I but say it now and get it over with? I'm so sorry Mom, I didn't mean to, blah, blah blah. I sat down next to her and turned to speak but my mouth was suddenly dry and I felt extremely nervous. I just sat there, looking at Mom as if about to speak, but no words came out.
"Well, are you going to pick a picture?"
"A picture?"
"Yes. A picture. Hellooooo."
"Oh, yeah. A picture." Relief flooded through me. "Yeah." I leaned over and around Mom, searching for the box under the table. I pulled a picture out and showed it to her without even looking at it first.
Mom laughed. "Oh, that one. It figures you'd pick it first."
She grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand to her chest, pressing the picture against her shirt and, without delay, began to tell a story about how the three girls had decided to get 'Donny'. I knew right away what the picture was. It was the one with Mom, Jena and that other girl sitting topless. I tried to turn the picture to look but Mom held it and my hand firmly against her shirt.
As Mom talked, I noticed she wasn't wearing the old t-shirt. She was wearing that old plaid shirt that had covered it that first day I found her sifting through the pictures on her bed. Rats. I couldn't see her breasts as well through the looser and thicker material. Oh well. I considered myself lucky, far luckier than I had expected to be this evening.
The story lasted much longer that the other's had and it dawned that this 'Donny' was a person of some importance, at least to the three girls and, judging by Mom's breathy voice, he still was. When she finished, I tried to peek in the box as I rummaged for the next picture, hoping to find one of 'Donny'.
"Hey no looking," Mom put her hand up to block my sight.
I picked a picture and Mom told me another story. A couple more followed. I was tired of this now. I wanted to do more than just brush her breasts and I couldn't see them very well anyway which made things worse because I was pretty sure she was naked under the shirt.
"Let's play a new game," I suggested.
"Like what?" Mom asked.
"I'll say something, or ask you something, about one of the pictures we've seen or the story you told to go with it, and you tell me something more about it. My questions might make you remember things that you've forgotten."
"That's a good idea. Do I get to see the picture first?"
"No. I'll describe one to you and you have to remember which one it was."
"That might be too hard," Mom protested.
"No it won't. It'll be easy. Just lean back and close your eyes. Try to imagine yourself back in the picture."
"What picture?"
"This one. Remember that picture of your friends playing around on the beach?"
"Which one?"
"The one that looked like it had been taken from a grassy hill beside the lake?"
"Oh yeah." Mom nodded.
"Who took the picture?"
"Jena did."
"Who was with her?"
"Just me."
"Why were you two off on your own watching the others?"
Mom's brow furrowed.
"I don't know."
"Just relax and try to picture yourself back there with Jena."
Mom's brow furrowed even more.
"Don't try too hard. Just let the memories come," I suggested.
I twisted toward Mom and, putting an index finger from each hand on her forehead, slowly trailed my fingers tips out to her temples. I repeated this and kept doing it. Gradually, the furrows disappeared and Mom's body visibly relaxed. She began to talk.
It was another long story, full of small memories that attested to the close and strong friendship between Mom and Jena. Though there was tension between them, apparently due to a friendly rivalry over the attentions of Donny, I detected no bitterness. Mom paused every so often and I renewed my gentle stroking. Eventually, feeling uncomfortable twisting around to use both hands on Mom's face, I turned around and straddled her legs, placing my knees on either side of her hips. Mom's eyes flew open.
"Don't sit on me, you big lug."
"I won't. I just can't twist around like that anymore. Close your eyes," I said, reaching out to stroke her face again.
