Incest/Taboo The Mom Memories: Mark's Story

My name is Mark. My story is similar to some of the ones here, at least at the beginning, but not so hot. Maybe that's because I'm just at the beginning of the story about my mom. And maybe not. So if any of you have advice for me, I'd appreciate it. You could just put a note in at the end of your own story, if that's allowed.

Anyway, here's the thing. I'm an only child. I almost had a younger brother that would have been a few years younger than me but he didn't make it. Wasn't even born. My parents didn't try to have any more children after that. Fine as far as I'm concerned. Most of the guys I know have brothers and sisters but they usually can't stand them. I like my situation. I'm spoiled, always have been, and I've never had to share anything.

Both my parents dote on me, well, my mother anyway. We used to do a lot of outside activities as a family until a few years ago when my father became really heavy. He still likes to go out with his buddies for some beers but he doesn't go fishing much anymore. He used to curl and stuff on his own, but now he just goes to watch ball games, football or baseball, never hockey or basketball, at the local pub. Once in a while, they all get together and go to the city to watch a real game. That's the extent of the sports activities.

It's different with my Mom. Since I went to school, she started work though she doesn't have to, my Dad does make good money. Maybe because of that, Mom has always kept her appearance up, needing to look good at work. She's not a stunning looker, don't get me wrong, but she has nice shoulder length, medium brown hair, a better than average face, and quite a nice figure, though she's only a few inches over five feet. Proportion-wise, you'd have to give her body an eight or nine. She has smaller breasts but they're ample for her small frame, partly because she has a flat stomach because of all that exercise. Her legs are well muscled but not so much that they look stringy like some of the runners you see. There's still a softness about her like younger women. And when she's not mad, her voice is really soft, almost husky. She could probably make a mint on one of the sex talk lines.

So anyway, to the story. Not a lot happened really, but it's really got me to thinking. First, let me set the stage for you. We usually watch TV after dinner, sometimes during dinner if there's a good game on. Dad and I watch, and Mom usually reads a book or some magazines. She's not interested in sports, but she stays in the room, just to be with us, I guess. She only watches if there's a movie on, or some other show. She never pays attention to sports or news.

Well, Dad and I were watching an early game when Mom came home, a little late. We told Mom we'd ordered Chinese food, so she came and sat down, grabbing a magazine to leaf through while we waited for dinner to arrive.

Now, our living room has a couch, loveseat, and a lazyboy chair situated with the loveseat at one end, the couch below the big front window, and the lazyboy across from it in the corner. Next to it, is the TV, one of those large, high definition flat screens that are so great for sports, and movies. Dad always stretches out on the loveseat, his head propped on one arm, his beer on the table in front of it, so he can watch the TV. Mom almost always sits at the end of the couch near the loveseat partly so she can access the magazines stacked on the lower shelf of the table between them in the corner, and partly because the light in the corner is the best one for reading. She only sits in the lazyboy facing the window during the day and Dad, for some reason, never sits there.

Anyway, I had moved to the other end of the couch, making room for Mom to claim her favorite spot. As she settled in after grabbing a magazine, back to the arm just like Dad, she stretched her feet out and tried to dig them under my leg.

"Mom," I cried, trying to bat her feet away, "cut it out."

"Come on," Mom complained, my feet are freezing," continuing to wiggle her toes in an attempt to slide them under my thigh.

The quarterback loosed a long pass. "Mom, stop it," I said again, trying to shove her feet away, "get a blanket." The pass went incomplete as the running back missed it by a foot. "Look, you made him miss it."

"Yeah right," Mom scoffed, still digging her feet at me.

"Mom, your feet stink," I complained.

"It's not my feet, it's my hose. I've been on my feet all day."

"Well they still smell," I said.

"Then let me put them under your leg."

"Mark, for Christ's sake," my father yelled as the players lined up, getting ready. "Let her put her feet under your leg."

"But her feet stink," I whined.

"Carol, can't you just take your hose off?" Dad asked impatiently, his eyes intent on the TV as the play started.

Just then the bell rang. Our food was here. Mom paid the guy and I got plates. We loaded up the coffee table in front of the couch, and ate in silence as the game progressed. Mom picked up the plates and returned a moment later with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a beer for Dad. She stuck her tongue out at me as she sat down, pouring herself a glass of wine and reaching behind her to get another magazine. She looked up at me and tentatively stretched her feet out to touch my leg. I lifted my leg and she poked them underneath. Smiling she leaned forward out and handed me the glass of wine, then over to the table to fill the other glass, sitting back with it to read her magazine.

I sipped wine and watched the game. Mom wiggled her feet a couple of times but I didn't complain since she'd brought me a glass of wine. It wasn't until the game went to commercials that I noticed that Mom had taken her pantyhose off. I was staring at her legs, realization setting in, so I guess it was a good thing her magazine blocked her view of me. I was still looking at her legs, noticing how soft her skin was, when the game started. Right after that Mom's legs, still together and bent at the knees, leaned toward the back of the couch. As my eyes followed her legs, I noticed Mom's magazine had lowered and she was watching me with a knowing smile. She pulled her left foot out and poked the side of my leg with her toe.

"Do my feet still stink?" she asked, "Huh, mister?" she prodded me again.

"Mom," I complained.

"Do you still think the bearer of your wine has stinky feet?" Mom's toe dug at me again and again.

"Mom," I replied in a exasperated tone, my hand reaching down to hold her offending foot still. She wiggled it, trying to poke my leg again, but I held it firmly in my hand.

"Huh?" Mom asked again, "huh?"

"Mom, stop."

"Carol, for Christ's sake," Dad piped in.

"Ok," Mom said, "if you rub my foot for me, it's sore."

"Mom," I whined.

"Rub her goddam foot, Mark," Dad barked at me.

Mom stuck her tongue out at me. I started rubbing her foot, barely moving my hand, just dragging my thumb along her instep. Mom smiled, raised her magazine and swung her knees back up, hiding her face. I continued rubbing her foot, moving my thumb very slowly, doing the least I could. I knew I was giving in, but I wanted to make it clear that it was a small victory she'd won. I also pushed my thumb in hard a couple of times, trying to make sure she didn't enjoy it.

"Oh, that feels good," Mom said very quietly, I guess trying not to disturb Dad.

I was surprised and was about to change what I was doing when she twisted her foot so her toes pointed out along my leg to make it easier for me to reach the bottom of her foot. But that isn't what made me change my mind. When she turned her foot, her leg twisted as well and fell away from the other, parting her knees and allowing me to see between her upper legs and down the soft back of her thighs. I sipped my wine and continued to rub my thumb hard along the full length of her instep, only now I was trying to please her.

"Mmmmm," Mom responded, very softly. I looked at Dad then, feeling guilty for some reason, acknowledging at least to myself that I was looking where my eyes had no business. Quickly, I looked back as my eye caught the slight movement of Mom's knee moving wider still. Her other foot dug deeper under my leg as she tossed out another 'mmmmm', lowering that knee and causing her to open the other a little more to keep them at an even height.

Now I could seem Mom's panties. As I rubbed her foot, I found I could sip my wine and gaze right down her skirt without suspiciously craning my neck. I jerked my head away, suddenly feeling guilty. Jesus Christ, Mark. You're looking at your Mom's panties. Get a grip on yourself.

But I couldn't control my eyes and they strayed back. Her panties. That's right. I'm looking right at my Mom's panties. I could feel myself stiffening, a boner coming on. Jesus, I could see how her panties puffed up between her legs with a cleft running down the middle of the mounded part, a few curly brown hairs peeking out the side of each panty leg. Oh my god. My cock throbbed in my pants.

I looked away, trying to settle myself down, raising my glass to take a sip. It was empty so I leaned forward to put it down. When I sat back, I noticed Mom's leg had widened considerably from my forward movement, but hadn't sprung back. I could see a little hollow on the outside of her panty leg now, leaving a little gap about a quarter of an inch. More hairs were visible now, and the panty was stretched tighter, clearly showing her pussy underneath. I was looking at my Mom's pussy; the thought rocketed through my head. Her pussy!

I yanked my eyes away, which was a good thing because Mom suddenly dropped her magazine, and looked at me with a stern look on her face.

"Don't stop," she said, pulling the magazine up again.

I hadn't realized that my thumb had stopped moving and jerked it into action again, relieved that Mom hadn't caught me staring down at her pussy. Didn't she realize her legs were wide open? How could I not look? My head turned back again, drawn straight to her panties. Keep moving, I thought, keep rubbing. I twisted toward her slightly, reaching over to replace my left hand with my right, cupping the outside of her foot as I slid that thumb along her arch in a longer line than I could manage with my left. I moved my left hand to cup the back of her ankle, sliding my hand softly up and down her lower calf. It was quite a brazen move, but Mom seemed to like it. Perhaps my intentions appeared innocent to her.

"Mmmmm. That's better," she purred. I was sure Dad couldn't hear her voice, it was barely audible. I leaned toward her, my left arm pushing her other leg back toward the couch, opening her even wider and stretching her skirt tight across the middle of her thighs, forced it another couple of inches higher. Her panties were completely visible to me now. She couldn't possibly not know that I could see everything. I rubbed my hand farther up the back of her leg, over the muscled part of her calf. Jesus, Mark, get a hold of yourself, I thought. You're going to catch it.

But I couldn't help myself. A few strokes later, I ran my hand right up the back of her calf to the underside of her knee, the backs of my fingers even brushing the soft skin just above. Mom's only response was to 'mmmm' again. Every time after that, I ran my hand right up and made sure to contact her leg just above the back of her knee. It was like I was on some kind of a dangerous mission.

And danger, there was. At the first sound of a commercial, Mom's legs closed together smartly, and I jerked my hand back to my side, the one caressing the back of Mom's leg falling to the couch, as Dad slowly got up and then lumbered toward the bathroom. We stayed like that, Mom reading, me dumbly watching the commercials with my hands at my sides, until Dad returned, carrying another beer. My heart was still pounding. I guess I half expected him to confront me, 'What the hell are you doing?', or even my mother, 'What the hell are you thinking?'.

The game started again and I nudged my hand forward, my fingers lightly circling Mom's ankle. She flinched but didn't draw her foot away. Instead, her knees parted a couple of inches. I stroked my hand up along the tendon to the bottom of the muscle and let it slide back down. Her knees opened another inch. Twisting toward her, I reached down with my right hand to dig my thumb along the bottom of her foot. Another two inches. When I slid my hand right up to the back of her knee her leg opened to its former position allowing her panties to burst into view. She knew! She knew what she was doing!

I could hardly contain myself as I caressed her legs, less tentatively now, deliberately stroking her in a sensual way. When I brought my palm down the back of her calf, I stroked with my fingers too. When the backs of my fingers brushed the underside of her thighs above her knee, I fluttered them to accent their touch. After several minutes of this, I abruptly pulled my hands away. I could see the top of Mom's head turn to look at Dad as she closed her legs. She must have thought I'd yanked my hands away because Dad was looking but, realizing he was still focused on the game and that his hand had simply reached for his beer, she opened her legs again.

I didn't put my hands on her right away, understandably being a little nervous. A long minute passed while I vacillated between long looks up Mom's skirt and furtive glances at Dad. My upper lip was sweating. I had turned halfway toward Mom to improve my view up her skirt. If he looked this way, I'd have to act like I was just about to say something to Mom, I thought. No, I'd pretend I was reading the back of her magazine, the part sticking up above the end of her skirt, now halfway down her thighs.

Mom's toe tapped my leg, urging me to continue the game she and I were playing, but I didn't respond. She dug her toe into me again and when I ignored that, she pulled her inner foot out from under my leg, where it had rested all along, and set it on my hip, digging her heel into me. Dig, dig, dig. The motion of withdrawing her foot and shoving me with it had pushed her skirt higher on that side. I shot a glance at Dad and noticed the top of Mom's head was turned toward Dad. She was watching him too.

Her right hand, closest to the back of the couch, slid down from her magazine to rest on the outside of her leg. Her fingers stretched out just below the hem and scratched her leg. As she scratched, she pulled her hand toward her, dragging the skirt even higher up her thigh, almost to her panties on that side. I looked over at Dad and then did something I can't believe I did. I reached out with my left hand and laid my fingers on the rear hem between her legs and then pushed it down, down, until the heel of my hand hit the couch.

I could see everything now. The front of her panties and the part below where they widened to cover her bum. I could see her cheeks squishing out at the top of her legs and above that the start of her pussy. I don't know what I would have done if the game hadn't ended right then. I know I was thinking about touching her, and in my mind, as I lay in my bed jacking off that night, I did.

But right then, I blurted out, "So what are you reading, Mom?" as Dad harumphed in disgust at the score, his team having lost I guess, as Mom's legs snapped closed.

That was last week. I was pretty sure Mom was egging me on and that thought made me nearly pull my pecker off every night since then. But now I'm not so sure because nothing has happened since, no secret smiles, no requests to rub her feet, nothing. I'm afraid to say anything to her. Please let me know what you think.

Mark here again. I see there are new stories available but no one has commented on mine, or pm'ed me with personal advice. I wish somebody would. Anyway, it's been another week since I sent my letter and two weeks since that night on the couch. Nothing happened even though there were several games on, so it isn't just because Dad's attention is riveted on the TV when games are on. Mom hasn't asked me to rub her feet for her or even stretched them out toward me since that night. Until last night, that is.

Mom was late coming home from work again, even later than the last time. Dad and I had already ordered Chinese food as per Mom's instructions by phone but we ate when it was delivered, while it was still hot.

Mom came in, sighing, "I'm exhausted." Seeing the food on the coffee tables, she said, a little pissed, "You didn't wait for me? Isn't that nice."

Dad didn't say anything, but I, suitably chastened, jumped up to help Mom get her coat off. "Sorry, Mom. I'll warm a plate up for you," I said, trying to make up for our faux pas, hanging her coat up as she unzipped her knee length boots and kicked them off. "You go sit down."

"Thanks, sweetie," her voice softened in appreciation of my apologetic attention. "My feet are killing me," she said as I dished up her empty plate which was sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch and rushed it into the kitchen to put in the microwave as she plopped down with a loud sigh, "What a day."

When I came back, Mom was sitting with her head back on the couch, hand covering her eyes. She looked tired. "Here, Mom," I said setting her plate down in front of her and holding out a full glass of red wine.

"Oh, thank you, Mark," Mom smiled sweetly up at me, taking the wine. "You're God's gift to a tired mother."

I sat down a few feet from Mom and watched her while she ate. Ignoring Mom, Dad watched his game, some kind of football quarterfinal. Mom leaned back when she finished and I took her plate and empty glass to the kitchen, returning with another full glass of wine. She smiled sweetly again when she saw the wine. She put her feet up on the edge of the table when she sat back with her wine glass but, when I patted the couch beside my leg, she swiveled them over, resting her back against arm of the couch instead.

She didn't try to dig her feet under my leg, she just rested them against my thigh. I took one in each hand and, pushing a thumb into the instep of each one, began massaging her feet. Mom watched me over her bent knees, mouthing a 'thank you' as I worked. After a few minutes, she scrunched down, moving her hips closer to me and bending her knees more to make room. I didn't move farther away so she could stretch her legs out, though I had room to do so.

She was wearing a dress instead of a skirt like the last time and it fit much more loosely around her legs allowing me to see the back of her thighs, but just the outside since her knees were closed tightly together. As I worked, I twisted her feet to get better access to her soles and it wasn't lost on me that this put pressure on her legs, which opened knees a little in response. I twisted her feet out a little more, winning a larger gap. Unfortunately, this dress was much longer than the skirt she'd worn before, coming down past her knees, so I couldn't see very much more.

As Mom relaxed, I ran my hands up her calves, just to the start of the muscle, like I'd done before. She didn't object. In fact, her sighed approval encouraged me to continue higher, stroking my hands over the crest of her calves to the back of her knees. Scratching my fingers down the back of her leg won me my first soft 'mmmmmmm'.

I was in heaven again. I wanted to be sure to make her feel really good so maybe it wouldn't be so long until the next time she let me touch her. I spent a long time rubbing her legs and very subtly, I pressured her knees apart, wider and wider. At the same time, I used my thumbs on the front of her legs to push her hem higher and higher until it was resting just over her knees, tremendously improving my view of the backs of her thighs. I didn't make any attempt to touch her above her knees, despite eliciting a number of 'mmmmmm's.

I waited patiently for half-time and had moved my hands down to Mom's feet, pulling her dress down and urging her legs closed by the time Dad got up for a bathroom and beer break. He nodded approval at me when he saw me kneading her feet, Mom seemingly asleep with her head resting on the couch arm, her legs demurely closed and leaning on the back of the couch. As soon as he sat down with a fresh beer the game started, pulling him into another world.

I didn't wait even ten seconds to begin enjoying mine. I pulled Mom's knees from the couch and pushed the hem of her dress right up to her knees, holding it there with my left hand. Sliding my right hand down to her feet, I moved each one to rest farther apart, one by my hip and one almost to my knee. With her thighs together and calves spread apart, I could see all of the backs of her thighs and her panties covering the part of her bottom that was exposed to me. If Dad looked over, this wouldn't look good but I was confident he wouldn't.

Mom must have wondered what I was doing, moving her feet apart and pushing her dress up, but not massaging her feet or legs. It had to be obvious that I was taking a moment to look under her dress, but she didn't make a sound or any indication of complaint. She just lay there with her legs open where I'd put them. Encouraged, I moved my hand up to her knees and, taking care to keep them covered by her dress, moved them apart too. Now, I could look right down the 'V' of her thighs to her panties, an unobstructed view. Mom was still quiet, as if waiting for something. It dawned on me that it might excite her as much to let me look as it did me for me to lay my eyes on her legs and panties. If that was true, I thought, I should take my time. After all, I was in no hurry. We were just past halftime and I was enjoying the view.

Mother fucker, I thought. Mom was wearing different panties. These ones were still cotton, light blue instead of white, but they were narrower than the other ones, leaving a wider gap between their edge and Mom's leg. Despite this, there weren't any stray hairs poking out the sides of her panty legs. Had she trimmed her bush, to make herself look prettier in case she let me do her legs again? The thought made my jeans swell. Examining her panties closely, I noticed that the vertical cleft in the center was more evident, at least by my memory, probably obscured by less hair. My cock throbbed as I realized she knew I'd been looking and she taken pains to make herself look good. She wants me to look, she wants to show me, her cunt. I almost came when that word popped into my head. I hadn't thought 'pussy', I'd thought 'cunt'. Such a stupid discussion but it's what went through my head.

I let my right hand drop down between her legs, not touching them, until my wrist rested on my own leg, centered between her feet. Slowly, I moved my hand forward, along the surface of the cushion. I could sense Mom tensing in anticipation, aware of my moving hand. It was thrilling to know she was expecting and waiting for my touch. My cock was so hard I felt like I was about to come, as if I'd been jacking off for an hour.

I was almost there, nearing the juncture of her legs. Mom's calf muscles had tightened and the balls of her feet were digging into my leg. She knew I was coming, and she was getting ready, not doing anything to ward me off.

I stopped an inch away, watching my hand in fascination as it lay between my mother's open legs, almost touching her panties. I looked over her knees at her face. Her eyes were closed but her brow was furrowed rather than relaxed. I looked at my father, then back to her face before raising my hand up from the couch, two, four, six inches. As if of its own accord, my hand moved forward with agonizing slowness, oblivious of my silent commands to move faster and, at the same time, to withdraw. Finally, it hovered over her panties, then settled lower, grazing then touching, pressing lightly on her panties, palm at the bottom and fingers, together, stretched up to cover the cleft. I was touching Mom's pussy!

Mom's breath sucked in sharply, then expelled in a long, quiet sigh that made her lips purse and then pout outward. Her legs quivered and her feet shook my leg. I pressed down more firmly, holding my hand still, sensing her heat with a mild shock. I hadn't expected her to be literally hot. Mom wasn't making any move to discourage me let alone angrily shove me away. I shot a look at my father again and then back to my hand, moving it, more like scrunching my hand to bring my fingers and palm closer together, squeezing her pussy between. Stretching my hand out again, I slid in forward and back, just an inch. Then again, and again, and again. Then squeeze, and squeeze.

I slid my hand further back, way back, exposing her panties to my eyes again, staring at the little furrow running between her mound. Centering my long fingertip at the bottom of that valley, I pushed my hand back up, digging a deeper valley through her panties. They weren't dry like they'd been when I first touched her, they were damp, not wet, but moist. Throwing caution to the wind, I leaned down to rest my forehead on Mom's knees and inhaled deeply, filtering the musky aroma of her through my nostrils. Dragging my hand back, gouging my finger deeply in her trough, I slid it right off but quickly pressed my thumb onto her pussy, digging it between her lips, pushing her panties in, feeling it penetrate to a moister environment. I scratched the bottom of her panties with my fingers while I worked my thumb around in her almost, but not quite, getting inside her.

I moved my thumb away and, slipping my fingertips just underneath the panty at the top of her left leg, I pulled it up, away from her skin and then slid in, rubbing the backs of my fingers across her bare pussy lips. I swiveled my hand, scraping her lips up and down with my knuckles. Pulling my fingers out, I quickly pushed my thumb underneath, shoved her panty to the side, and inserted my thumb into her hole, and wiggled it in her cunt.

Mom groaned as her slickness welcomed my small intruder, her eyes flew open and her head jerked to look at Dad, still watching the game. My eyes darted there too and then back to her as her head swung back, her knees closing, legs trapping my hand between. 'No' she screamed silently, her face panicked, her feet trying to push me away. I kept wiggling my thumb inside her. 'No' she screamed again, her hands reaching under her legs to grab my wrist, forcing it away.

Mom sat up then, drawing her feet tightly to her and her dress down, but still facing me on the couch. I stared at her, breathing heavily. I'm sure my eyes were wild but the panic was leaving her face. She looked so beautiful, I wanted to kiss her.

A moment later, she got up and began clearing away the leftovers, taking them into the kitchen. I followed, but she waved me away, not looking at me, but seeming upset. I didn't force it. I went upstairs and stayed in my room for the rest of the night. I didn't sleep much. I kept smelling my hand and trying to jack off with my left. When I woke up the next morning, I'd come in my pajamas. I must have dreamed of her all night.

It was Saturday, almost noon. No school. I showered and threw on some sweat pants and a t-shirt and went downstairs, both eager to see Mom and dreading it too. She wasn't there. While I was eating breakfast, Dad told me to mow the lawn if I wanted to watch the game with him because it started at one.

"Where's Mom?" I asked.

"Shopping," he grunted.

I mowed the lawn. When Mom arrived an hour later I rushed out to unload the groceries. Dad was watching the game which had already started, but he wouldn't have helped anyway. Usually, she really appreciated the help but this time she didn't look at me and didn't come out to get more bags, leaving it all to me. I dutifully carried them all in, setting them down on the counters and the kitchen table when I ran out of room there. I started helping Mom put the food away, but she still ignored me.

"Are you going to watch the game, Mom?" I asked, almost in a little boy voice.

Mom sighed, her shoulders slumping, sagging against the counter in front of her. She set the cans down that she had been about to put away, then turned to face me. Tears were welling up in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry. I just got carried away," I sobbed, tears suddenly springing from my eyes.

Mom held her arms up and I hugged her, my arms sliding around her shoulders and then falling down her back. Mom's arms were around my shoulders, patting me, "There, there. It's OK," she assured me. "It won't happen again."

Sniffling, I whimpered, "But I like massaging your feet for you, and your legs, and I know you like it too."

"I do," Mom confided, "It does feel good. We can, if we don't get carried away. How's that? Would that be OK?"

"Yeah, Mom," I nodded my head, sniffling, pulling back to dry my eyes. I smiled as she dried her eyes too, then pulled her back to hug her again, wanting to avoid her eyes as thoughts of her open legs popped into my mind. I was intensely aware of her body against mine as I hugged her, noticing the feel of her breasts for the first time in my life. How was I going to touch her legs and control myself, I wondered? Mom gave me a big squeeze, so hard I thought her tits would make a permanent imprint on my chest.

"Away you go now." She waved me off. But I stood my ground.

"Don't you want a massage while you watch the game?" I asked.

"I'm not interested in the game."

"But you've been out shopping for hours," I persisted.

"Yes. Maybe I'll lay down upstairs and have a quiet nap."

"Are you sure you don't want a massage? Your feet must be tired."

"No. I think I'll just lay down." Mom gave me a funny look. "Behave yourself," she said, "I'm still not sure I shouldn't be mad at you." She went upstairs. I watched her walk away in her sunny housedress with its loosely pleated skirt swirling around her knees, emphasizing her wonderful calves.

I watched the game for a few minutes with Dad but grew bored and wandered up to my room. As I passed my parent's room I heard Mom call me, "Mark?"

I entered to find Mom laying back, head and shoulders slightly raised on two pillows, feet drawn up. She was still wearing her shoes. She must have been really tired not to have taken them off downstairs, I thought.

"Maybe a little foot massage would be nice," she said, twisting her knees to the side to look at me. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Mom."

She closed her eyes as I crawled up onto the bed and slipped her shoes off.

"Oh," she said, "I forgot they were still on. I hope my feet don't smell," she laughed.

I lifted a foot up and sniffed it. "Nope," I answered. Mom laughed again, as I lowered her foot to my lap and started massing it, rubbing my thumb along her instep in my usual way. She sighed, and I could feel the muscles in her leg relax.

Lulled by the faint sound of the ballgame, I concentrated on giving her a good massage then, just like I'd done the day before. Soon I was stroking her leg to the knee, scratching my way down and Mom, though she'd said we couldn't get carried away, made no protests. I guess getting carried away was further up the line, or leg, as it were. But how far? Mom was resting quietly, almost like she was sleeping. I decided to work on her other foot and leg before venturing further, just in case she stopped me. I lifted that foot to my face and sniffed it too.

"Does that one smell," Mom's voice was light, amused.

"No," I replied. Suddenly, I spontaneously kissed her foot and ran my tongue along her instep. "But it tastes salty," I laughed.

Mom squealed, tugging her foot, laughing, "Stop that, it tickles."

"I'll be more careful, then," I responded, kissing her foot again and holding it firm while she tried to tug it away. "I love your salt," I said, dragging my tongue through her instep.

Mom laughed. She didn't squeal again, or try to tug her foot away, so I continued a mix of kissing her foot, rubbing her sole with my thumb, and running my tongue over her instep. Soon, I was running my tongue over her whole foot and around her ankle. I waited for some time, to be sure Mom wasn't going to stop me, before I ran my tongue down the back of her leg to knee, and kissed and nibbled my way back to her foot.

"Mark," she whispered, "Remember what we talked about."

"I will, Mom," I answered, kissing the top of her foot, "I'm just doing your legs." I quickly ran my tongue down her calf and back again, as if demarking the permitted territory, pausing to swirl my tongue in the hollow behind her knee.

"Mark, be careful," Mom admonished me.

"I'm just doing your legs, Mom. I can do your legs, can't I?"

I kissed Mom's leg again, several times, digging my thumb into her sole while waiting for her answer.

"Ok," she whispered, "you can do my legs."

"All of them?" I pushed.

"Yes," she finally whispered after a long pause, "but don't do what you did yesterday."

"I won't, Mom. I promise."

I lifted her leg higher and kissed and nibbled her calf muscle down to her knee, swirling my tongue around and nibbling the soft skin behind her knee. Then, catching her by surprise, judging by the sound of her quick gasp for air, I kissed and nibbled my way down the inside of her thigh, pushing her dress down with my head as I moved along. Mom's hand grabbed my head as I neared her panties.

I paused. "I said I wouldn't, Mom."

I continued raining little kisses around the top of Mom's thigh, near the edge of her panties, between her legs and over to the other thigh, kissing it too and nibbling her soft flesh between my lips. Her hands followed my head around but they didn't push me away. After a while, her fingers grabbed my hair and clutched my head. Her smell was strong, she had to be wet.

I let my hands slide her dress up the outside of her legs, pushing it above her hips. When I pulled my head back to look at her panties, my face inches away from her pussy, she actually raised herself slightly from the bed, chasing my mouth. Quickly, I pushed her dress up behind her back before she settled back again. Pulling my hands inside her legs, I pressed them wide apart, breathed in deep, and expelled hot air over the front of her panties.

"Oh, Mark, don't."

I could see her pussy in great detail through her panties, cut the same as the ones she wore yesterday but made of even thinner material, more like Saturday go out dancing panties that girls my age wore.

I took another huge gulp of air and blew a steady stream of hot breath onto her cunt.

"Don't, Mark, don't."

I let my fingers fall inside her leg until they were alongside her pussy lips, as close as they could be without actually touching her since I promised I wouldn't. Pressing down into her leg, I pulled may hands apart. The gap between her pussy lips widened and I blew right into it. Again, and again.

"Please, don't, don't," Mom whispered.

"Don't you want me to?" I asked, blowing into her again, puffing in short bursts.

She didn't answer. I blew into her again, long and steady.

When she still said nothing, I suggested, "Just this once, Mom?"

"No," she whispered, then more quietly, "no."

"Just once," I persisted, blowing again.

No answer.

Just once, "I repeated, blowing longer, scratching my index fingers in the hollows along the edge of her panty legs. Her pussy pulsated in concert with my scratches.

"ok."

I could barely hear her voice but that didn't matter. I pressed my face an inch closer, right onto her panties, stuck out my tongue and dragged it between her pussy lips, right up to the top and over her clit. I raised my hands up to grab the waist of her panties as her hands pulled my head tightly against her mound. I don't think I could have pulled my head back then even if I tried. Putting muscle into it, I ripped her panties, tearing them right down the middle, the material shredding away and baring her pussy to my tongue which immediately dipped into her wetness.

Mom started groaning and bucking her hips, mashing her pussy against my mouth. I held on for the ride, digging my tongue in deep and lapping her soaking, pink cunt. My hands slid under her ass, squeezing her cheeks hard, pulling her up against me, trying to get my whole mouth over her pussy lips while my tongue dug away. She was bucking frantically, urgent and wild, and yelled when she came. I panicked for a minute, turning my head to listen as her climax subsided, but there was no sign of Dad's lumbering weight creaking up the stairs. I turned back to lick her pussy some more, plunging my tongue in deep and then up to flick her clit to pull one last, long moan from Mom.

When she was still, I crawled up and lay between her open legs, pressing my boner against her cunt which still felt hot even through my sweatpants. I started humping against her.

"No, Mark. Don't."

"I have to, Mom," I gasped, "I have to. Just once. Just this once."

Frantically, I humped harder, trying to come before she stopped me. But she didn't try. Her arms circled my neck and pulled me toward her. Seconds later, her hips started thrusting up to meet me, like we were really fucking. It sent me over the top, and I unloaded in my pants.

I collapsed on Mom, gasping for breath. Her arms stayed around me, patting my shoulders. When I recovered, I could hear the sounds of the game wafting upstairs. Mom's voice spoke quietly, "Away you go now. We'll talk about this tomorrow afternoon when Dad's at the pub watching the big game with his friends."

I stood and looked down at her for a moment before I left, her legs still spread wide, panties in tatters with the shreds clinging to the leg bands and in between her moist pussy, swollen and glistening in the afternoon light. As I walked away, Mom called out and I turned around.

"If you see Dad, make sure you face away from him". She nodded and looked at my groin, smiling. Looking down, I saw that the entire front of my sweat pants were soaked.

I ate dinner quickly that night and went straight back to my room.

Today was big game day. Dad's friend Brad was supposed to pick him up on the way to the pub but he was late and the game was five minutes in when he arrived. Dad refused to leave until half time so they wouldn't miss anything. I was pissed. Mom had promised to have a "talk" while Dad was at the pub and, despite the implication that a lecture about going too far was coming, I was sure I could get Mom joking around and then start feeling her legs again. And who knows where then? She was the one that had started the ball rolling. I had just kicked it into a new court. In my youthful view, once a girl let you touch her pussy, it was yours forever. So you can imagine how pissed I was that Brad was late.

"You're not watching the game with us, kid?" Brad was visibly shocked as he sat down, staring at my back as I stomped up the stairs. "What's up with the kid?" he asked Dad, looking genuinely concerned and perplexed. Dad just waved his hand, eyes on the TV. He asked Mom when she came in from the kitchen, bringing him and Dad a couple of beers each.

"I don't know, Brad. He's been out of sorts lately." Mom set the beers down on the table. "You know where the fridge is if you need more. I'm going up to talk to Mark."

I beat a hasty retreat from the top of the stairs where I'd been watching to see if Mom was coming or staying to play host. I heard her pad softly down the hallway toward my room, heard her knock and quietly call my name several times before opening the door and closing it. She called again at the bathroom door before opening it to discover I wasn't there either.

"Oh there you are," feigning surprise upon finding me in her room, closing the door softly behind her to shut out the din of the game and my father and Brad's even louder commentary. "I see you made yourself comfortable," Mom added in reference to finding me stretched out on her bed, still dressed in the sweatpants and t-shirt I'd put on that morning. I simply nodded, smiling despite my grumpy exit from downstairs.​