I got home from working out at my friend's place. It would've felt weird to shower there, so I jogged the half-mile home and went inside.
After a few minutes of catching my breath, I grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and went upstairs to my room. I stripped naked and went into my bathroom and started the shower. I had to take a shit, so I sat down and took care of business and flushed.
The water was perfect and I just let it hit me on the forehead and chest for a while. I took a bar of soap and washed everywhere and then, after rinsing that off took my Suave shampoo and took the time for washing, rinsing and repeating. Halfway through, the water was getting cool, so I rushed through my rinse and stepped out.
"Yeah, Mom," I yelled back.
"I forgot to tell you our water heater wasn't working correctly, and you may run out of hot water," she said, her voice sounding louder, and she walked upstairs and into my room. I was naked, and she quickly turned around, "Sorry Honey. I hope everything got washed OK?"
"Yeah, everything did," I said with a chuckle.
"How was your workout today?"
"I'm bench pressing 40 pounds over my weight. I'm finally getting great abs. Not as nice as yours, but I don't have breasts in the way."
"Was that an insult about my breasts? From the way you look at them all the time, you'd think of a better way to say something like that."
"Wait, mom. That's not how I meant it. I'm sorry if I embarrass you by looking, you're the best-looking mom at my high school. All the boys..."
"All the boys what?" she said turning back towards me and maintaining eye contact even though I was still naked.
"Well, they all wonder if I've ever seen you topless because they want details about what your nipples look like," I said maintaining the same eye contact.
"Oh, they do — do they? Should I show you, so you can report back to them?"
"No. Even if I did see them, I would keep it to myself. No one would need to know how beautiful your breasts probably are."
"Am I the reason for that?" she said.
"What?" I answered looking down and seeing my fully erect dick pointing practically straight up. I covered myself with the towel.
"Don't cover it up for my sake. That's impressive, how big is it?"
"Mom, come on!"
"No, I asked you a valid question, how big is your dick when it's hard?"
"Uhm, a little over nine inches, and three inches around at it's thickest."
"You didn't get that from your father, that's for damn sure. He's barely half that size. Put it away and come downstairs and help me with dinner."
"Sure thing mom!"
We are the Sullivan's.
My father is Clark Sullivan, a salesman who is only home one week a month. He is 6ft4 and a little chubby at 215lbs. He was a wrestler in college. Now he has black hair, is 43 and his hairline is receding, so he combs it to try not to show so much forehead.
Mom is Claire Sullivan (nee Simmons), a housewife who works out four times a week at Curves. She's 41, 5ft9, a towhead and lithe at 136lbs. I would have to guess her measurements, but I believe she is a full C-cup, possibly 34-22-33. She is quite tiny in the waist. I've picked her up to get her out of my way on occasion, she usually giggled.
My older sister is Lily Sullivan-Margate, now married to a jock, and they live 1,000 miles from us. Every time mom gets her on the phone, she asks her when is she getting her first grandchild? For comparison purposes, Lily is 5ft10, a brunette like dad and married a professional decathlete that is on the pro circuit. I would guess she weighed 150lbs when I last saw her. She was happy being a small-breasted woman, having a small B-cup.
I'm Peter Sullivan. I play basketball and baseball at my high school. I was forbidden from playing football; right after a boy at our school got a concussion and died from it a number of years back. I could have played wide receiver because I was tall, 6ft6 and 178lbs. I am also a towhead, a phrase my dad used when I was little. I was outside so often, my hair stayed very blond. Only just now, at 17, it is darkening a little.
With mom and me alone most of the time these days, we got into the habit of cooking together. At first, I was knocking things over, spilling ingredients and just having trouble. It wasn't that we had a small kitchen, but I was trying not to touch her as we moved from point to point.
Her C-cups were omnipresent in my mind, and I wasn't about to even accidentally run into her or brush up against her. After a few months, we were like Fred and Ginger. That was mom's comparison, not mine. I had to look them up. I didn't tell her that.
The meal we were making was just about finished, so I set the table adding a pair of candles, lighting them. I told her to sit down, and I brought our finished meal to the table. I went back for glasses and a bottle of half-finished Merlot.
I sat and poured us a glass.
"Since when did you become a wine drinker?" she said not sounding as derisive as she could have.
"When I realized I had a beautiful woman in my life. That's why I got out the candles."
"Well, it's OK ... you aren't going anywhere, so go ahead and drink all you want. There is another bottle inside the refrigerator."
We each took a sip, and then started our meal, Chicken Divan with curry. She was a proponent of trying new ideas in the kitchen, so I even added some basil from our indoor garden of herbs. We had Basil, Bay, Cilantro, Marjoram (a kind of oregano), Parsley, Rosemary and Sage. She had plans to add a few more, when she felt like it.
"This chicken is marvelous Peter. Your instincts are good in the kitchen. You'll make a marvelous husband to some lucky girl," she said.
"Since we have water heater troubles, why don't I take my showers at night, and you can in the morning?"
"That's very gentlemanly of you. However, we may both come home from working out. When that happens what do we do?"
"Maybe, flip a coin?" I suggested.
"Or we could just take a shower together?" she said with a grin.
It's good that I had already chewed and swallowed my last bite of dinner, so I took a moment to stake a sip of wine before I said, "What ... did you just say?"
She had a big grin on her face. "Now that I know what you're packing, we could save water and shower together," this time sounding sincere.
"Mother, as entertaining as that might be, aren't you worried about being nude in front of your own teenage son?"
"I personally believe that being naked is how we are supposed to be, but society expects decorum between parents and children. How do you feel about that, Peter?"
"If you are talking about walking around naked inside the house, I see a number of problems with that."
"I would likely be in a constant state of horniness like you saw earlier."
"What else?" she said pouring herself the last of the wine.
"Wouldn't you be embarrassed, prancing around in front of me all day?"
"Why would I? I've got nothing to be ashamed of. I do need to shave before I walk around here. I'm rather unruly down below."
"Mother ... Claire, that is too much information," I said getting up for the other bottle of wine. "Where's the corkscrew?"
"In the third drawer over and second drawer down." I got up and found it. I stayed standing and carefully removed it, with a flourish. I poured myself some.
I had been really drunk before, but this time I felt only a little tipsy.
.... There is more of this story ...