One Saturday in August, wearing only shoes and a ragged pair of old cut-offs as my futile hedge against the heat, I was pushing the lawnmower around the sculpted edges of the lawn, unconsciously following the curves and contours and dodging overhanging flowers and shrubs, just letting my mind wander where it wanted to. I was thinking about starting high school in the fall and looking forward to my fourteenth birthday, which would take place in September as well. Somehow, fourteen seemed like a magic number. If nothing else, for me, it marked the real entry into my teen years. Thirteen was too near twelve, and at twelve, you were still a kid. And thirteen, like twelve, didn't have a real number in it, like four-teen and six-teen. So fourteen sounded a lot more like sixteen, when I'd be able to get a driver's license, and be, well, a real teen-ager.
On this day, I just plain felt good, despite the perpetual undercurrent of sexual frustration, which I'd learned to push aside as background noise. Mom and I had a good life together. I didn't remember Dad. He'd left when I was two. All Mom ever said about him was that they had been college sweethearts. Mom became pregnant with me when she was nineteen (nine-teen), and they got married. The deal they made was that after he finished his degree, she could get hers. But as soon as he took his MBA, he left. Mom never looked back. She set her sights forward and went on with her own life, and now she was a highly successful landscape architect, with a constant stream of commissions from local government, major corporations in the area, and the wealthier folks who lived in the hills. I'd asked her a couple of times when I was younger if she ever gave any thought to remarrying, and her answer was the same both times: she couldn't see any percentage in it.
Although we'd lived in modest apartments while Mom was building her practice, four years ago she had finally been able to buy a sprawling, suburban house, I think more for the yard than for the house itself. Certainly we didn't need all the space, but the yard was a demonstration of Mom's talents, and it was my job to maintain it. Mom had become fiercely independent as she built a career for herself, and she did her best to instill that same self-reliance and independence in me. I must have heard Mom say a jillion times, "The lessons learned best are the ones we figure out for ourselves." She had a lot of trust in me, and maybe that's why I really didn't mind taking care of the yard as part of my share of the load.
It was one of those thoroughly surrealistic late summer days, with the temperature in the 90's and the air dead still. The whole world seemed to be without depth or contrast, alternately shimmering at the edges or lapsing into flatness, unreal in either case. I was on my own with my chores; Mom had gone to play tennis. Mindlessly, I pushed the lawnmower, letting my mind run, smelling flowers and the cut grass, and feeling sweat trickle down my bare chest.
I was jerked from my thoughts by the sound of tires barking very near by. I looked up to see Mom's car lurching into the driveway. The car was still angled in the drive, rear bumper hanging out over the walk, when the front end dipped to a quick halt. I dropped the lawnmower handle and started for the car. Something had to be wrong. This was not Mom's usual ultra-cautious driving style.
As I approached the car, Mom got out, levering herself with elbows atop the door and the roof, her face twisted in a grimace of pain. "Oh, Alan! Thank God you're home," she called out, with obvious relief.
"Mom! What's wrong?"
"I pulled a groin muscle playing tennis, and I can barely walk. Justine and Donna practically had to carry me to my car. And thank God it's my left leg. If it had been my right leg, I wouldn't have been able to drive. Can you please help me into the house? I have to get into a hot bath and let the muscle soak for a while."
"Sure, Mom," I said, rushing to her side. I wrapped my right arm around her waist to help give her left leg support, and she threw her left arm over my shoulders. We started toward the front door in kind of a three-legged hobble, our hips bumping together as we worked to get our steps synchronized. Inside the house, we edged this way and that through doorways and down the hall to Mom's bathroom.
By the time we got to Mom's bathroom, she was gasping with exertion, pain still visible on her face. We paused while she caught her breath. All of a sudden, whether I wanted to be or not, I was terribly aware of Mom's presence next to me, the heat of our bodies, our closeness. I was enveloped in Mom's atmosphere, her humidity. Her tennis shirt was damp, and her scent was all around—shampoo, soap, the barest hint of perfume, her deodorant, a bit of fresh perspiration, and ... and her, the unique scent of Mom herself. I had never before been conscious of Mom as a person, as a woman; I mean, after all, she was my mother, my parent. It had been years since we were really close together physically, and certainly not when we were both dripping with sweat. I was also aware of the familiar tingle of blood starting to flow into my cock, and I felt both scared and ashamed, getting a hard-on while Mom was in pain, and getting a hard-on because of Mom, period.
We separated ourselves, and Mom leaned back against the counter. "Thank you, honey," she said, wiping her forehead with her wrist. "I don't think I could have made it without your help."
"You going to be okay, Mom?" I asked.
"I think so," she said, sniffing and wiping at her upper lip and nose. "I just need to soak the sore muscle for a while and get it to relax." Mom leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.
"Okay," I said, "if you're sure."
I went out of the bathroom, leaving the door ajar six inches or so. I don't know why I didn't close the door all the way, but it didn't really matter whether the door was shut or not. I wasn't going to be anywhere near the bathroom anyway. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a tall glass of lemonade. But I guess it was one of those fortunate coincidences that I did leave the bathroom door ajar. I had just taken my first satisfying gulp when I heard Mom call out. "Alan? Alan! Are you still in the house?" I never would have heard her if the door had been closed.
"I'm in the kitchen, Mom," I called back.
"Please come here. I need some more help."
I jogged back down the hall to Mom's bathroom. She was still standing as I'd left her, leaning back against the counter, but she'd taken off her shirt and bra, and had unzipped her shorts and pushed them down just below her navel. I stopped dead in my tracks. My jaw dropped, and my gaze landed on Mom's breasts. I saw—I mean, I saw—the shape of them, their soft, perfect, rounded contours, just the right size for the rest of her, nipples puckered in the air-conditioned coolness of the house.
"I'm sorry, baby," she said with a chuckle, despite her discomfort. "I don't mean to embarrass you, but I'm stuck. Both my shorts and I are so damp that they won't come off easily, and I can't keep my balance and bend over to push them down at the same time. Could you help me? Please?"
Mom and I have never made a big deal about our states of undress around the house. We're neither exhibitionists nor prudes. If one of us happened to walk in on the other when we were changing clothes or walking around in our underwear, we'd just say "excuse me" and turn away. But I had never seen Mom this undressed, and never this close up. My mouth suddenly went dry.
"Of course," I croaked. "What do you want me to do?"
"I think it would be better if you started the bath water. I don't want to fall on my face into the tub. And, I'm afraid, I am going to need some help getting my shorts off."
I reached into the tub enclosure and turned on the hot water, letting it run over my wrist. "Make it as hot as you can stand it," she said. I did. And when the water was rushing into the tub satisfactorily, I turned back to Mom.
I knelt in front of her, looking down at her feet. Reaching up, I found the legs of her shorts by touch, and then tugged down. Once the shorts were over the swell of her hips, they dropped to her ankles. Still looking at Mom's feet, I reached up again and hooked my fingers under the damp elastic band at the top of her panties and began to pull down. Her panties didn't come off so easily, and I had to worry them all the way down her legs. When her panties were at her ankles, Mom lifted her right leg, and I slid both shorts and panties off over her foot. As she began to lift her left leg, she stopped suddenly, and moaned with pain. "More help, please," she said.
I looked up at her face automatically, in the same instant realizing that her bush was right in front of my nose, only inches away. Mom didn't trim her bush the way the ladies whose pictures I'd seen on the web did. It was lush, curling, dark brown, slightly matted from the pressure of her clothing, and much more attractive than something barbered. I was flooded with sensation: I felt the heat from Mom's body and smelled the cocoa butter lotion she'd put on her legs, and, for reasons I couldn't imagine, I wondered whether she'd taste like chocolate. In the midst of the cocoa butter was another faint scent, one I'd never smelled before, but one that some primeval part of my brain knew could only be Mom. Mom's pussy. I froze. My cock became rock hard.
"Honey," Mom said softly, "you're going to have to help me lift my left leg." Gulping, I looked down at her feet again. I leaned in toward her, placing my left shoulder against the inside of her left thigh. I reached between her legs, wrapped my arm around, took hold of her ankle, and, with my biceps behind her knee, gently lifted her foot off the floor and pulled her shorts and panties away with my right hand. Mom gasped. I didn't look up from that position. I didn't dare. It seemed that I could feel heat radiating from her pussy onto my shoulder. My ears were ringing, and my cock was straining against my cut-offs.
"Thank you," Mom said. With my eyes turned away from Mom, I brushed her shorts and panties toward the wall, then stood cautiously. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay long enough to help me into the tub," she said.
In a half crouch, so that my hard-on wouldn't be apparent, I took a step and sat down sideways on the toilet lid, studiously watching the level of water rise in the tub. Neither Mom nor I spoke. When the tub seemed to be full enough, I got up, stepped across the room half bent over, and turned the water off. "Ready?" I asked.
"Um, I think I'd better pee before I get in the tub," Mom said. I turned to leave the room.
"Please help me?" Mom asked in a small voice.
I lifted the toilet lid. Mom turned around, putting her bare ass on full display. It was pale against the tan of her legs, and perfectly shaped. Mom's tennis playing was only one way she kept herself fit. She worked out regularly, and had the body of a woman five or even ten years her junior. My mother was beautiful, even if she was my mother; I mean, objectively, this woman, who happened to be my mother, was beautiful. Sexy. I couldn't deny that. I couldn't overlook it. Cautiously, I placed my hands just at the bottom of her rib cage and supported her as she hopped back a step to the toilet. Just above my hands, her breasts bobbed up and down. When she was seated, I backed out of the room, still half bent, and closed the door behind me.
Out in the hall, I leaned against the wall, drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, my eyes shut. I reached inside my cut-offs and repositioned my hard-on to that it was pointing straight up instead of jammed at a painful angle. While I still had my hand on my cock, I heard, even through the closed door, the hiss of Mom's pee into the toilet. I almost came in my shorts. What in hell did pissing have to do with sex? That primeval part of my brain was in control. I felt crazy, really crazy.
Until I pulled Mom's shorts off and looked up at her, I'd never seen a woman naked before. The image of her pubic hair, only inches from my face, the smell of the cocoa butter lotion, and the smell of her, seemed burned into my brain. I couldn't make them go away. And, I kept reminding myself, this was my mother, for God's sake. I wasn't supposed to be getting a hard-on over her—or wanting to touch her again, or touch her more, or ... or any of the other things I found myself thinking. I wanted desperately to go to my room and beat off, to get rid of the sexual charge and to get my head straight again.
The toilet flushed, and Mom called out, "I'm ready to get in the tub now."
I steeled myself and went back into the bathroom. Mom was standing in front of the toilet. As I came near her to wrap my arm around her waist, it seemed that the faint scent of her urine lingered in the air; oddly, it had the effect of a perfume on me, and the scent of her seemed stronger, too. It was my imagination, I was sure, the primeval brain at work. We got ourselves into the same three-legged position we'd used to walk from the car into the house. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I carefully positioned my hand so that it was in thoroughly neutral territory, not too near her breasts, and not too near her bush. When she put her arm around the back of my neck, my shoulder nestled snugly into her armpit. My senses were in overdrive. I could feel the slick wetness of her armpit against my skin, and the slight scratchiness of a couple of days' stubble there. We successfully negotiated the two or three steps from toilet to tub.
When we got to the tub, we separated, and she turned to face me. I reached down and placed my right hand behind Mom's left knee, and helped her lift her leg up and over the edge of the tub. As she did, I couldn't help but see her pussy. I guess that, when she wiped herself after peeing, she must have fluffed the hair some. I was aware, in minute detail, of individual hairs extending downward between her legs, and of the folds of her labia beneath them. When Mom's left leg was firmly on the bottom of the tub, I put my hands at the bottom of her rib cage and steadied her as she braced herself against the shower door and the wall and lifted her right leg in. Then I moved my hands up and under her arms, trying my best—not completely successfully—to avoid touching the sides of her breasts. When she was settled in the water, she let out a long sigh. My hands were trembling.
"Thanks, honey," she said. "I'm probably going to need help getting out of the tub, too. And I'd appreciate it if you'd stay in the house while I'm soaking, just in case. Would you mind?"
"Of course not, Mom," I said, the calm in my voice belying the quivering in my body. "I'll be in my room. Just holler if you need me."
When I got to my room, I wanted to jack off in the worst way. I was dying. That's all there was to it. My sex life so far had consisted only of pictures, fantasies, and my hand. I'd never seen a woman naked, felt her bare skin, smelled all the scents of her body, her skin, her perspiration, her urine, her woman-smell. Never. It seemed to me, all of a sudden, that I'd gained a new understanding of what sex was really all about. But with my mother? I felt guilty. And dirty. Perverted. I didn't know what to think. And, at the same time that I wanted to beat off with a vengeance, I was afraid to, for fear that Mom would call for me at just the wrong time, and I'd have to explain to her what took me so long to get to her. Instead, I sat down at my desk, turned on my computer, and started a game of Diablo.
But as I began my descent into the dungeon, I could still smell Mom all around me. I turned my head to the right. The scent of Mom's armpit was radiating from my shoulder, invading my nostrils, her deodorant, her sweat. Her. In frustration, I stood abruptly and went into my bathroom, where I washed my shoulder twice. I sniffed again. Better. Now, what I smelled was Dial soap and my own sweat. Okay.
I settled down in front of the computer, and before long, I was back on Level 32, picking up gold and spells, and swinging my sword and hurling balls of lightning at Obsidian Lord. Dimly, I was aware of the sound of water draining out of the bathtub, and more water running in. I descended downward, chasing after Diablo. After some period of time—I don't have any idea how long—I heard Mom's voice calling, as if from a great distance. "Alan? Alan. I'm ready to get out of the bath now."
"Coming, Mom!" I shouted, as I saved my game. My hard-on was gone, and my ears were no longer ringing.
When I walked into the bathroom, Mom was still sitting in the tub, with the water running out, her breasts glistening. "Okay," I said, " how do you want to do this?"
We negotiated back and forth for a minute or two. We came to the conclusion that, if we simply tried to reverse the process we used getting Mom into the bathtub, we were likely to run into trouble—either her feet might slip, or I wouldn't be able to hold on to her, with her skin wet and slippery. We therefore decided that we'd get Mom standing up, and she could dry herself off while she was in the tub. Then, if she turned her back to me, I could support her from behind while she lifted her legs over the edge.
Knowing that I'd never be able to hold onto her wet midriff, I leaned into the tub and cupped my hands under Mom's arms. Levering herself on the edge of the tub and the soap dish to help as I lifted, she slowly rose to a standing position. I handed her a towel, then stepped into the hall to wait until she'd finished drying. When she was done, she called me back in.
This time, her back—her ass—was facing me. And I started to get hard again, just looking at her. Since her back was to me, I was able to give my cock a quick hitch and get it pointed straight up. First, I held her at the base of her ribs. She held the shower door and braced herself against the wall, and lifted her right leg out. Then, bending forward slightly, I wrapped my right arm around her waist and put my left hand behind her knee to help her lift her sore leg out. As her left leg was coming over the edge of the tub, she lost her balance just enough to throw me off. I put one foot back, and Mom started to slide down. I squeezed hard and lifted. When she stopped moving, she was leaning fully back against me. My hard-on was lined up perfectly in the crack of her ass, and I was gripping her left breast firmly. I could feel the heat of a serious blush start up my chest and into my face.
As I stepped away from Mom, she turned and looked at me. "Oh, you're blushing," she said. "It's okay. Please don't be embarrassed. You haven't done anything wrong."
I was relieved that Mom wasn't upset, but I was sure that she'd been able to feel my hard-on against her ass, and I had held onto her breast for a long second or two before we regained our balance.
"Would you dry my feet for me, sweetie?" she asked. "I still can't bend over that far."
I looked down at Mom's feet and ankles, my gaze, of course, sliding past her bush on the way. Now, after a bath and toweling, her bush was all fluffed out, standing away from her body, looking twice as full and lush as it had the first time I saw it. My hard-on began to throb. With a smile, Mom handed me her towel.
Mom put one hand on the counter, then edged herself along to where she could lean back against it. When she was set, I knelt in front of her, keeping my eyes directed downward, and carefully dried one leg, then the other, from the knee down, lifting each foot off the floor enough to dry between her toes. To the good side, her crotch didn't smell the way it had before she took her bath. All I could smell now was soap. And skin. And a little bit of Mom-smell. But the primeval part of my brain took over again when I dried her toes. I found myself paying close, loving attention to each toe, gently working the towel between them, making sure that her feet were fully dry. I felt like bending down and kissing those toes. I must have taken an awfully long time to dry Mom's feet, but she didn't say a word, didn't try to hurry me.
"Now, would you please get my nightshirt out from under my pillow and bring it to me?" Mom asked.
I did, but when I took her nightshirt out from under the pillow—I don't know why I did this—I pressed it over my face and inhaled deeply. And my ears started to ring again. It was laden with Mom-smell. Soap, perfume, skin, her body oils, her perspiration, whatever it was that smelled so ... so delicious. The smell was wonderful. I didn't think I could get enough of it. I kept her nightshirt over my nose and mouth all the way to the bathroom door.
When I handed the nightshirt to Mom, she put it on. Period. I didn't leave the room, and she didn't turn away. When she raised her arms over her head, her breasts rose, too, and I watched, transfixed. Mom was becoming more beautiful by the moment, and I was becoming less and less bothered by my enjoyment of her as a woman.
After Mom got her nightshirt on, we did the three-legged walk to her bedroom. She sat down on the edge of the bed; then I lifted her legs up and got her straightened out. As I was about to leave the room, Mom said, "You know what I think would help a lot? If you massaged my leg a bit to help the muscle relax. I took a couple of Naprosins while you were getting my nightshirt. They ought to kick in pretty soon. If you could just massage my leg for a few minutes, I think I'll be able to relax and sleep for a while."
I gulped, and said, "Sure, Mom."
"There's a bottle of body lotion on the counter in my bathroom," she said. "That would probably make the massage easier."
I got the bottle of body lotion. Back in Mom's bedroom, I kicked off my shoes and peeled off my socks, which had grass clippings stuck to them, as well, and got up on the bed on my knees. Mom spread her legs slightly, and I positioned myself with my left knee between her legs. Mom's nightshirt was just that: a shirt she wore at night, a vee-necked cotton tee-shirt that was long enough to come about halfway down her thighs. I dribbled a little of the lotion onto her thigh, and started massaging the area between her knee and the hem of her nightshirt. After I'd massaged that part of her leg for a couple of minutes, she said, "You don't understand, honey. I pulled a muscle in my groin—higher up.
I slid the hem of Mom's nightshirt up a few inches, dribbled on a little more lotion, leaned farther forward, and started massaging again. After a couple of minutes, Mom said, "No, Alan. Higher."
I couldn't lean any farther forward without putting too much weight on Mom's leg. To get into a good position, I had to scoot up until my crotch was snug against the ball of her foot. I pushed the hem of Mom's nightshirt up a couple more inches, applied lotion, and started massaging again. "Just a little higher," Mom said.
I was afraid to push Mom's nightshirt up any farther. I withdrew my hands and applied some lotion to them, then reached up under the cloth, a little higher than before. "Mmmmm," Mom said, "that's the spot." I began to massage her thigh in earnest. "Oh!" she cried. "Not so hard!" I eased off. Before long, I had the pressure down right, and I kept rubbing and kneading the sore area, quite gently, really. It didn't take much pressure to make Mom wince. The lotion soaked in and my hands started sticking fairly quickly, so I pulled my hands out to put on some more, and the cloth dropped down onto Mom's leg. After I'd done this three or four times, Mom lifted her bottom off the bed and hitched up her nightshirt.
I was now looking directly into Mom's vagina. Her pussy. If she looked down, it would appear to her that her crotch was covered, but from my vantage point, I could see everything. Every hair, every contour, every fold, every wrinkle. My hard-on was strained to the bursting point, and I was getting seriously afraid that I was going to lose it, right there, in my shorts, in front of Mom. I leaned back and flexed my hands a few times. Mom opened her eyes and looked at me. "That feels so good," she said, almost in a whisper. "Please don't stop yet."
I applied more lotion to her thigh and resumed my massage. I was rubbing the top and inside of her thigh so high up that I could sometimes feel the pubic hairs extending downward from her pussy tickle the ends of my fingers. It seemed to me that Mom would be able to feel that, too, but she didn't say anything. She began to purr, sort of. "Mmmmm," she said. "Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Mmmmm."
Mom's pussy started to open like a rosebud in water. First, her outer lips puffed up. Then they began to separate, exposing the moist, pink flesh inside. After a bit, the inner lips started to move outward, widening the gap between them. Pretty soon, the area that had been a dark, hair-covered indentation was shining pink skin framed by Mom's pubic curls. I was intensely aware of every shining aspect that pink flesh, each tiny hill and valley. As I massaged her legs, it moved and changed. I could see her actual vagina, the opening, the hole, the place. I could smell her again, too. This time, there was no scent of her urine, but a different smell, a smell that was making my mouth water and straining my aching cock even more.
As I watched, a glistening droplet of clear fluid appeared at the lower edge of her vagina. It grew and it grew, then it fell over the edge and ran down between her legs. Another droplet appeared in its place, swelled, and ran down. Then another, and another, until, before long, a steady stream of the fluid was running out of Mom's pussy.
Mom was still making the "mmmmm" purring sound and kind of muttering to herself. "Been so long," she mumbled.
I knew from what I'd read in the "what teen-agers need to know about sex" books that when a woman became sexually stimulated, she produced lubrication, or that, in locker room talk, a girl who was hot made a lot of pussy juice. But I didn't have a clue what pussy juice actually was, or what it looked like. I could only guess. In the midst of my mouth's watering over the smell of Mom's pussy and the ache of a hard-on that was about to burst, some multiprocessing part of my mind was dealing with logic. Given the information I had, I had to assume that the clear fluid running from Mom's pussy was indeed pussy juice. Mom was a woman. If she was making a lot of pussy juice, then she was hot. The pussy juice apparently started to flow in response to my massaging her leg. Therefore, she was hot about me.