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I followed the crease between her legs until it disappeared beneath the navy blue dress. Suddenly self-conscious, and feeling guilty about a twinge in my groin, I looked up to see if Dad could see where I was looking. Fortunately, his chin was tucked into his neck and he looked like he was seriously dozing. Belatedly, I looked at Mom but she was looking straight ahead through the windshield.
I looked at the keys and then at my mother, silently imploring her to pick them up but she ignored my plight. I looked at my father again, took a deep breath, and reached for the keys.
After a quick snatch my arm leapt for the ignition but the keys fell through my loose fingers back onto Mom's legs. I tried again but, in my nervousness, they proved to be the most slippery things I had ever tried to pick up.
Changing tactics, I curled my fingers and dragged them back in an attempt to scoop the keys up but pressed too hard and pried a gap between Mom's legs. The keys fell through onto the seat. I looked helplessly at Mom but she had turned her head and was looking out the passenger window. I checked Dad's status and confirmed his head was still sagging on his chest.
I twisted around a bit to face Mom and brought my left hand into play. After another deep breath, I dove between Mom's legs until I encountered the keys and was shocked to realize my fingers had grazed past the raspy scrape of nylon. Incredibly soft, feminine skin rubbed the edges of my hand. The reaction in my groin was immediate and the prisoner there would have risen to half mast for sure if it wasn't so tightly constrained within my pants. Flustered, I nevertheless deftly hooked the tip of my longest finger through the key ring and dragged them back, fighting the fearful urge to yank my hand away.
Mom turned to look at me as the engine roared to life. "Let's go home. I'm not feeling very well," she said.
It was a long drive. I gripped the wheel and glared at the road, trying desperately not to look at Mom's legs, but to no avail. Despite the effort they were repeatedly drawn to the hem of the navy blue dress which was still half way up her thighs. Was she unaware of the state of her dress? Fortunately, every time I looked Mom was gazing out the passenger window so my snooping went unnoticed.
That night, I dreamed that I was hitchhiking on a lonely road and was picked up by an older woman. She twisted toward me in an unnatural way that was completely incompatible with driving, her open legs beckoning wantonly until I lifted her half way up the back of the seat. She was wearing stockings instead of pantyhose and no underwear so I was able to impale her with my cock which had mysteriously become completely unholstered. She laughed as I slammed into her again and again, her throaty moans urging me to do it harder as we careened wildly down the highway. Her blouse burst open and I buried my face in her tits as I came. Somehow, we didn't crash.
I woke up the next morning with soiled shorts.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I was nervous around Mom the next day. Thankfully, it was the weekend so I figured I wasn't expected to tell her what to wear but she did ask me what to make for dinner. The act of telling her what to do triggered a vivid image of my hand searching between her legs for the keys and I experienced an urgent desire to relive the moment, only this time her legs wouldn't part by accident, I would command them to open. The illicit thought filled me with guilt and shame, rendering me too flustered to answer, and Mom had to prompt me with suggestions to complete the meal plan.
When she asked about dessert the dream about the older woman in the car popped vividly into my head except it was Mom pinned to the seat with legs wide open and feet planted on the dash to accommodate my thrusts. I turned beet red, rushed out of the kitchen, and ran up to my room. Why was I thinking about Mom in such a sexual manner? I loved her but not in that way so why did I get turned on every time I looked at her? I felt sick to stomach, especially because images of Mom's legs kept filling my head, and didn't go downstairs until dinner time.
Time is an amazing healer. I had less trouble specifying Sunday's dinner and none Monday morning when Mom asked me to suggest a dress for her to wear while Dad was still eating breakfast. Dad glanced at her but quickly returned to his newspaper. I guess asking me to make a suggestion didn't come across as an order though Mom and I knew better. For the rest of the week, that became the routine. I would eat breakfast quickly with Mom and Dad and, in front of him, she would ask me what I thought she should wear that day. Of course, it was imposible not to imagine how she would look in a short skirt getting in and out of the car and I felt and looked very uncomfortable. Dad gave Mom a look and she jumped on him in answer to his unvoiced question.
"Well, I may be working at home but I should still dress professionally and there's no sense asking your opinion!"
Dad ducked behind the newspaper and when Mom asked me for suggestions on Friday and the weekend he didn't bat an eye. On Monday, I was stumped for a suggestion so Mom told me to come upstairs to see what the choices were. I was nervous about it at first but quickly got into the swing of it and actually enjoyed it. Though I was supposed to be telling her what to wear some of my color blind suggestions didn't wash. Apparently, my 'orders' would only be followed if they were acceptable.
As the week wore on I got a little cocky and began to pick outfits that showed off Mom's figure. She had lots of nice clothes she hadn't worn since leaving the office to work at home. She seemed to like wearing them and I definitely liked seeing her in them. The more revealing clothes made it difficult not to watch her closely every moment I was home. I found myself thinking about her during the day, imagining how she looked doing simple household chores or leaning back in her chair in her office the way she did when she was thinking. At night, I dreamed about the mature woman in the car but her face always turned into Mom's at the moment of climax. By the end of the week I realized Mom was aware of my scrutiny and that my clothing picks weren't exactly innocent. On Friday I found a solution that would explain why I was always staring at her. I declined to go upstairs with her to pick an outfit for the day and waited until Dad had gone to his office.
"A time and motion study? Of me?" she asked, demanding confirmation.
"Not you, particularly. It's just practice so we can get a feel for the way people move."
"Why?"
"It's for my Ergonomics class."
"Ergonomics?"
"Yeah. We're studying how to make people more comfortable in the workplace so they can work more productively."
"And how will taking pictures of me help?"
"We're supposed to study people's posture and the way they move when performing simple tasks. People move too fast so pictures and short clips will help."
"You're going to show them to the class?"
"No. We're not supposed to show them to anybody. That way, our subject won't be self-conscious."
"That's a tall order, for the subject."
"You're the one that wanted me to go to school. I'd rather be driving around in a Cuda"
"Mason. Why can't you get over that?"
"I was just kidding," I retorted. "Will you help me or not?"
"Yes, of course I will darling." She gave me a hug. "Why don't you go upstairs and lay something out for me to wear while I make your lunch?"
I was elated and literally bounced up the stairs. Now I could take pictures and video of her and look at them later to my heart's content. Of course, it was all bullshit but she would never know.
I found a form-fitting dress in the back of the closet that was obviously not part of Mom's regular work wardrobe. I laid it on the bed and was about to leave when an evil thought struck me. I rummaged through her drawers until I found what I was looking for: a half-cup bra designed for evening dresses, the smallest panties I could find, and a pair of very sheer stockings.
I walked to school full of an exuberance that was occasionally, but only briefly, washed away by trepidation. I could hardly contain myself and broke into giggles several times through the day including once in the middle of class. That was embarrassing but didn't knock the thoughts and images of Mom out of my head.
It was late in the day when I remembered that I hadn't told Mom what to make for dinner.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I turned it over and over in my mind all the way home. Had she worn the sexy dress? Was she angrily awaiting my arrival for daring to suggest what underwear she should wear, especially such racy stuff? Though eager to get home the closer I got the more apprehensive I became and accidentally went a block out of my way. Upon realizing my error I almost repeated it on purpose but desire to see Mom in the sexy dress overcame my fear.
I opened the door ready to bolt for the street if need be. I stepped cautiously inside but Mom wasn't in the kitchen or her office. I was about to call out when she appeared at the top of the stairs and slowly descended, the black dress hugging her figure, molding her breasts and emphasizing the breadth of her hips as they flared out from her narrow waist. Only the glimmer of the sheer nylon stockings drew my attention lower to her legs and then the right foot which hovered for a moment, then failed to complete the final step. I looked up, my breath caught in my throat. Mom was smiling and looking right at me.
"No camera?"
I shook my head, my thick tongue preventing speech.
"I thought that's why you picked this dress, so I could look my best for your class."
"We're not supposed to show anyone. Remember?"
"Oh yes, I forgot. And you forgot something too, mister."
"What?"
"Dinner."
"Dinner?"
"Yes, dinner. Now we have to go out again."
She stepped onto the main floor and twirled around, looking down at her dress and then at me, smiling radiantly.
"Oh well, it would be a waste not to wear this dress for something."
"We're going out again?"
"Of course. Go get your father."
I started to turn but Mom called me back.
"Take a picture of me first. I forgot how good it feels to wear this dress."
I took several pictures because Mom struck different poses. They were the first pictures I took of her and I still love every one of them.
I found Dad in his office. He didn't want to go for dinner.
"You forget to pick what we should eat so I have to take you out for dinner?"
"I guess. It was Mom's idea," I added, to deflect blame.
"I see." He stumbled as he got up from his chair. "Be careful, son. Your mother only plays the servant when she wants something."
"I'm already going to college," I said, in a tone that conveyed 'what else could she possibly want'. I didn't mention where the money was coming from to pay for it because I knew he'd be pissed when he found out.
Dad laughed. "Well, that'll keep you in the good books, for a while anyway."
His comments made me uncomfortable though I was sure he didn't know Mom was letting me telling her what to wear, especially her underwear, or how I was thinking about her. I couldn't look at her now without thinking about how attractive she was and dreamed about having her every night. If he knew, he'd probably kick me out of the house.
"I could tell her you don't want to go," I suggested.
I hoped he'd take me up on the suggestion—the thought of being alone with Mom was immensely appealing—but sadly, it wasn't to be.
"No, it's not worth fighting about," he said.
I was about to say they didn't fight but remembered Dad getting the silent treatment whenever Mom was peeved. Of course, that was years ago. Nowadays Dad didn't pay attention to Mom and she ignored him just as much. They had an understanding: mutual disengagement.
When Mom saw us coming down the stairs, she said, "You better drive. It looks like your father has started early."
I drank very little wine during the meal in the hope Dad would drink more, and he did. I filled Mom's glass as often as I could and was thrilled when Dad ordered a second bottle, probably to irk Mom. As the wine was consumed she became more talkative and Dad, to my pleasure, began to fade so I dragged dessert and coffee out as long as I could. To my disappointment Dad managed to stay conscious through both but sagged appreciatively against the passage door as soon as we got in the car. I helped Mom get in from the driver's side and pretended to look away as she swiveled her legs around, lifting her knees high in the process. Pleased by the success of my delaying tactics, I squeezed in behind the wheel, shut the door, and turned toward my mother, ready and eager to play with the keys again.
"Keys?" I asked.
"You opened the door with them."
"Oh. Oh, right."
I looked stupidly at my right hand and the keys held within them. Shit! I was glad for the dim light in the car because it seemed obvious to me why I had held my hand out for the keys, directly above her legs. I stared past my father out the side window, unable to fathom how I had fucked things up, and hoping I wasn't as obvious to Mom as I was to myself. What an idiot. Seconds passed. How could I fix this? Was it possible to salvage this colossal fuck-up? Mom was waiting. I held the keys up in front of her.
"Did you want to drive, Mom?"
"Drive? Don't be silly. I've had way too much wine."
She pushed my hand away and I let the keys drop onto Mom's legs. It seemed hokey to me—very put on. Unfortunately, they landed on her lap above the hem of the sexy, black dress rather than between her legs where they could be pushed inside the skirt. How could I have missed the mark with so much leg showing? Mom looked at the keys and then raised her eyes. I tried to return her gaze but was starting to fail when she spoke.
"Are you sure you can drive?"
Thank God! She thought I'd had too much wine and not trying to satisfy a disgusting, forbidden desire. What a relief.
"Yeah, I barely had a glass and that was hours ago."
Mom held her gaze for a few more seconds and then looked away, out Dad's window.
"Well, pick up the keys and let's go."
I had second thoughts and hesitated because she seemed displeased.
"Can you get them for me?"
"You're the one that's driving."
"Okay," I agreed, reluctantly.
I tried to scoop the keys up with my right hand, I mean, I really did. My fingers started to fold around them easily but stopped when I felt the silky material of the black dress. It was much thinner than the navy blue business suit she had worn two weeks earlier and the warmth of her body transferred erotically to my fingers. A picture of the skimpy panties I'd laid out for her to wear crashed into my head and the knowledge that my hand was only a fraction of an inch from what they covered.
I couldn't move! It was ridiculous. I was frozen with my hand in the triangle where her legs and groin met. I loosened my fingers, as if changing my mind about picking up the keys, then closed my fingers around them again in a tight grip. My knuckles scraped over the warmth emanating from beneath the dress. Mom's thighs moved apart. She must have thought her legs were pinching the keys and preventing me from picking them up. My fist sunk between her legs until the back of my hand pressed against a hot, spongy mass.
"We should go, Mason," Mom whispered.
I stuttered. "I meant to tell you…you look nice tonight…in that…this…dress."
I felt like an idiot.
"Thank you. I feel good in it, too."
"You should. You look sex…uh, awesome in it."
"Thanks. We really should get going. I think your father's done."
I looked at Dad. I had completely forgotten he was there!
"Oh. Oh yeah."
I lifted my hand and the keys miraculously came away but they fell as I swung my arm toward the dash and crashed on the floor. I looked down, stupidly, then reached between Mom's feet. It was too dark to see so I felt around on the carpet for the keys. My head turned toward Mom as I leaned further down and reached past the hump to the floor on Dad's side of the car. She was looking out the passenger window, or maybe she was looking at Dad; I couldn't tell which. I did know, however, that I was looking straight up Mom's dress because she had parted her legs to accommodate my reach and to let me search for the keys between her feet.
It was one of those moments that seemed to drag on forever. Though it was dark on the floor, there was sufficient light coming from a street light through the windshield to see that the hem of Mom's dress was very high up her legs. I couldn't believe I had managed to drop the keys on her dress. I suddenly realized I had stopped searching and was gawking between her legs. I stretched further and got the keys, then sat up, awkwardly, and fumbled the keys again. I was horrified. It was completely unintentional but was that believable? The keys landed squarely between Mom's legs and in the dim light I saw them slide through to the seat cushion and bounce into the darkness inside the dress.
I looked at Mom with dumb disbelief written on my face but she only reset her head in an impatient gesture that basically said, 'Get on with it.'
I turned and pushed my left hand between her legs, trying not to touch them as if that would make it more innocent. I paused at the hem but then carefully reached into the dress, foraging for the keys.
I scraped skin. It was as tender and exciting as I remembered. I wanted to keep my hand there but knew I had to go higher. Where the hell were those keys? My hand had to be almost to her panties.
My fingertips struck metal and timidly curled around the keys. I tried to retrieve them without rubbing her inner thighs or scraping her panties but it was impossible. I did both and although it was a thrill it also scared the shit out of me. Still, I managed to accomplish the task quickly and retrieved my hand without a rebuke from Mom. I only missed the ignition once and then started the car. I was pulling out of the parking lot and thinking about the heat deep inside her dress when Mom spoke.
"I was surprised by the clothes you picked this morning."
The question caught me off guard. I looked at Dad to see it he had heard but he was still slumped against the door. That was a relief but only partly. I wasn't sure how to respond and it took almost half a minute to find an answer.
"Really? I think you look great in that dress."
"I meant the other selections."
I played dumb. "Other selections?"
"You know what I mean."
I rolled through a stop sign, turned onto the main road and looked at Dad, then stared intently at the road ahead.
"Oh. I thought I was supposed to pick everything."
"You're not my husband."
I glanced sharply at Dad.
"Oh. I thought I was supposed to do things the way Dad used to."
I looked at my passed-out father as if seeking confirmation.
Mom followed the direction of my gaze.
"I guess I did say that, didn't I?"
"Sorry, Mom. I won't, uh, pick that kind of stuff again."
Mom looked away from Dad and back at me.
"I didn't say you shouldn't. I just said I was surprised, that's all."
We drove in silence for a minute.
"So it was okay?" I mumbled.
She answered with a question of her own. "You like the dress?"
"It looks awesome, Mom."
We drove the rest of the way home in silence. When we got there I started quickly for the house but Mom called me back.
"I need help with your father."
I shook Dad awake and walked him to the house. He was really unsteady on his feet. Mom insisted I get him upstairs so I sat him on the bed and started to leave. Mom was reaching behind to unhook the back of her dress and the lift of her breasts caught my eye.
