Chapter 2

As you can no doubt imagine, Tim and I were eager to compare notes about our experience at the drive-in but in the aftermath we were both showered with interest from girls who previously hadn’t given us the time of day. It was overwhelming, not in numbers but the sheer unexpectedness of it all. To our credit, it soon rang hollow and neither of us were predisposed to respond favorably, partly because we were confused about the new choices and also wary about the validity of the options.

Our procrastination led to a defensive reaction of feigned disinterest from the best of our new fan club, a trend which accelerated into waning real interest with the growing scuttlebutt that we had simply been one-time lucky with a couple of college girls that had since saw the error of their ways. The rumor settled into high school lore when the Rambler failed to make an appearance at the next two drive-in features.

In any event, by that time we had both independently decided that we were really more enamored with our moms which we discovered when we finally did get time to really talk, first discussing the fact of our regressing popularity, and then quickly moving on to a more important topic, our moms.

In some ways, it seemed, the past few weeks on that front were similar but in other respects they were quite different. My home life continued as if the whole drive-in episode had never happened while Tim’s fell short of his boyish dreams yet offered more than a glimmer of hope. In fact, it shimmered in comparison to mine, making mine look like purgatory.

This was hard to fathom, to say the least. Both of us had gone further with our mothers than we had with any other girl. Tim, who had started the ball rolling, had necked longer and more intensely than ever before and then rubbed himself and his mom to orgasm. And I, unbeknownst to him, had gotten farther than he, actually sliding my cock into Mom’s mouth and humping her face until I left a deposit that, as far as I was concerned, marked my territory. All this was forgotten in the ensuing weeks and I now wondered if, in our whirlwind triumph at school, we had neglected and possibly lost the true treasure that had always surrounded us.

My belated attempts to get Mom alone were mostly rebuffed and when I finally managed to corner her she made it plain there was nothing to talk about. She didn’t say anything but her body language was not welcoming and whenever I mentioned what was on at the drive-in she simply said the car was mine and she’d make sure there was no argument from Dad.

Tim reported a similar reaction from his mother. We were both bummed out talking about at the drive-in where our lonely appearance was duly noted by our peers and confirmed the rumor about being dumped. The following week, we kept more or less to ourselves but I noticed that Tim seemed less bummed out than I. It wasn’t until half way through the movie the following week at the drive-in that he owned up that things had improved for him on the home front. He may have experienced a setback but at least he was still on the game board.

Apparently, at the Sunday night dinner table the previous week, Tim started talking about the movies we’d seen with our moms at the drive-in. His father, of course, wasn’t the least bit interested but something made him persist when he saw how uncomfortable his mom was with the topic. She actually blushed and looked down at the table when he first started talking about the movies. Only he noticed since his father was listening to the TV which was still on in the living room and soon got up to leave, cued by the start of some program.

Tim continued with his description of the first movie but despite his father’s absence and, he thought, any reason for discomfort, his mother still avoided his eyes while quickly finishing her own meal. As soon as she was finished, she got up and began clearing the dishes from the table. My friend kept talking while he watched his mother fill the sink with soapy water, his eyes catching every move she made.

Chewing the last bits of his meal, he realized that his mother probably wasn’t joining her husband in the living room in fear of her son following and pursuing his distressing conversation. Tim, a more competitive sort than I, sensed an advantage, and decided to stay in the kitchen to pressure his mother, reminding her of their previous intimacy and shared indiscretion. He could tell that his discussion and visual attention was flustering his mother. He wondered, he told me, whether she was just afraid that he might let something slip about what had happened, or if the memories re-ignited the sexual excitement of that night. He got up from the table, bringing more dishes from the counter.

“Here, I’ll help you with these, Mom.”

“No, no. You go watch TV with your father. I can manage this,” Millie quickly took the dishes from Tim, verbally shooing him away.

Undeterred, Tim snagged the dish towel that was hanging from the oven door handle and stood behind his mother, admiring how she filled the back of her skirt. “It was one of those knee-length skirts with heavy pleats starting just where the material crests the upper slope of the butt,” he said, eyes kind of glazing as if he was picturing it in his mind. I formed a visual too and felt a stirring in my loins as Tim continued with his story.

Millie seemed aware of her son’s attention and grew even more agitated, washing glasses much more quickly than normal, even putting them into the dish rack without rinsing them as she usually did.

“So I calmly rinsed the first glass and dried it, then did the same with the next one,” he said. “I felt a strange sense of control,” he told he, “feeling no need to rush. On the third glass, Mom started rinsing the dishes but she still washed them faster than usual.”

Tim said he kept describing the movies, now on the second feature, and his mother eventually calmed down, slowing her pace until she was washing at her normal speed. Tim had fallen behind and the rack had filled so his mom had trouble finding a spot for a bowl. That’s when Tim casually took several clean dishes off the rack and put them back in the soapy water.

“I don’t think you got these clean enough,” he said to his mom.

His audacity staggered me and from the grin on his face as he related this to me, it was still amazing to him.

“What happened?” I asked incredulously, expecting some strong rebuke from his mother or, even worse, a call to his father.

“Nothing,” he replied, a tinge of surprise in his voice. “She didn’t say a thing. She just started washing them again, really slow.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I kid you not,” Tim laughed. He paused then, regarded me with a serious look on his face.

“What?” I implored, knowing something was coming but with no idea of what. “Come on, give.”

“That’s when I did it,” he said, as if ‘IT’ was somehow obvious.

“Did what?” I resented having to pull it out of him, all the while realizing that the effort would increase the value of the prize.

“Patted her ass,” he revealed.

Tim had reached down and lightly patted his mother’s skirt several times, allowing his palm to briefly mold over her right cheek, cupping it gently and almost holding it as he leaned toward her to say, “That’s better,” as if he was the one in charge.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Evidently, there hadn’t even been a small rebuke. His mom, he said, acted as if nothing had happened. So then, after each dish was washed, Tim patted his mother’s ass. It wasn’t long, he said, before he simply kept his hand on her butt and massaged her cheek after each dish, ignoring the dishes in the rack and leaving them to dry on their own. When his mom finally finished washing all the dishes, even after he returned several more for re-washing, Tim said he pressed his raging boner against his mom’s skirt, kissed her on the cheek, and whispered, “I’ll help you with the dishes tomorrow night too, Mom.”

Tim explained that this continued for the rest of the week. Every night, after his father left the kitchen, Tim and his mother would set about doing the dishes. There was no need to return any dishes to the sink. Millie washed everything thoroughly, taking extreme care to be sure each item virtually sparkled before it was placed in the rack. Tim had so much time between dishes that he found a need to employ both hands, rigorously exploring all of his mother’s backside. Eventually, he stood with his boner firmly pressed between his mother’s skirted cheeks, allowing the dishes to be placed in the rack while his hands explored her blouse, leaving no inch of its spongy expanse untouched.

By Friday, despite progressing to intense stand-up body rubs accompanied by serious ear and neck nibbling, Tim was unable to convince his mother to go to the drive-in with him again, but he did extract a promise, he said, beaming with pride.

“What, what?” I cried, in eager expectation, awaiting some magic words to match his radiant features.

“She said she’d go again if your mom would too.”

I struggled to breathe as that bomb sunk in. It was up to me, then? I couldn’t even approach my mom and I was supposed to convince her to go? My excitement, built up so high listening to Tim talk about his week with his mother, crashed to the ground. I said as much to Tim.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Mom will ask. You just have to get yours to agree.”

I remained unconvinced.

“If she doesn’t say anything,” Tim went on, “just say I said my mom wanted to go to the drive-in and I won’t take her alone unless you bring your mom too.”

I was only half convinced.

“It’ll work, don’t worry about it,” Tim exuded his typical confidence. Except for getting dates with the good looking girls at school, things almost always worked out for Tim.

“Ok,” I replied, uncertainly.

That was Saturday. After that, I ran every time the phone rang but hung back, waiting for someone else to answer. Whenever it was for mom, I lurked nearby out of sight, listening. But there was no call from Millie, at least none that I heard, though I couldn’t be sure they didn’t talk during the day when I was at school. By Wednesday, Tim was tired of me bugging him about it.

“Mom promised she’d call. Don’t worry about it.”

That was fine for him. He got to shove his dick into his mother’s skirt every night after supper and grope her tits and last night, he took joy in telling me, she let him hump her butt until he came in his pants.

I had started helping with the dishes every night since Sunday but couldn’t bring myself to make an advance on Mom, afraid I’d ruin everything if Millie did call. And though I brought up the subject of the drive-in, Mom neither responded nor seemed bothered by the topic. Her dishwashing was as fast and efficient as ever and I didn’t have the courage to put any of her finished products back in the sink. So the week went on. Wednesday night turned in to Thursday and then Friday. Saturday was hell. I called Tim in desperation when there wasn’t a single call all morning and at lunch Mom didn’t say anything.

“Have you heard anything?” my voice pleaded for a positive response.

“Your mom hasn’t said anything?” Tim seemed surprised.

“No. Why?”

“Well, Mom said she talked to her yesterday. You sure she didn’t say anything?”

“Positive,” I countered, my heart, and dick, sinking. The answer must have been no.

“Huh,” Tim replied, sounding mystified rather than devastated the way I was feeling.

“I’ll look into it,” Tim promised.

I hung up, got some lemonade from the fridge and wandered out to sit on the patio. I was only dimly aware when the phone rang several minutes later though I’d jumped at every ring for the previous week. It rang and rang. Finally, it stopped and Mom’s cheery voice sang out from around the corner where the phone hung on the kitchen wall, “Hello.”

“Oh, Millie. Hi.”

“Yeah, sorry. I just got so busy, I forgot.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Millie. I don’t think so.” Mom’s voice suddenly lowered, “Things got so carried away last time.”

I slumped back into the lounge. There was a long pause, punctuated by a few ‘mmhmmms’.

“I know, Millie,” Mom’s voice lowered even more. “I’m fine with it but just as a one-time thing,” she almost whispered.

Another long pause. I sunk deeper into the cushion.

“Well, why can’t you just go by yourself?” Mom’s voice returned to normal.

“You’re kidding. Millie, you need to get hold of yourself.”

Another long pause broken by, “I know,” several times.

“Yes, they are handsome boys.”

I perked up.

“They think they got dumped?”

“Well ok. But just to be seen ... so it looks like they’re still on.”

“Alright. Ok, Millie, I said yes ... tonight? I can’t. Wayne’s boss is having another party. We have to go.” Mom didn’t sound enthused by the prospect.

“Next week, then. Ok. Talk to you.” Mom hung up.

I stayed rigidly still in the lounge, trying not to make a sound. I didn’t want Mom to know I’d overheard her conversation and hoped she didn’t come outside. Thankfully, the sound of her feet faded as she walked away.

I was ecstatic and disappointed at the same time. Mom was coming to the drive-in but not until the next week and clearly she wasn’t into fooling around, but my spirits still rose. Mom may not want to do anything but there was no way, not after what Tim had been telling me, that there wouldn’t be hot action to listen to from the back seat. If I could just get Mom to sit close to me as if we were on a date — and Millie had clearly pitched that as an excuse — then one thing might lead to another. A lump suddenly appeared in my pants. Down boy, I thought, my excitement rising. We have to get through the next week without ruining things.

SLAM!

The sound of the door jolted me upright in bed. My head jerked around as I strained to see in the dark, then sat still to listen as I realized that was futile. Sleep fogged my brain and I could only sense the anger in the loud exchange of words and nothing of their meaning. Did I say exchange? I should have said barrage, a stream of uncharacteristic vehemence in my mother’s voice, including swearing, I’m sure, though I couldn’t separate individual expletives.

The sound of shoes being tossed was followed by firm stomping up the stairs.

“I don’t care if you were drunk,” Mom yelled.

There was some kind of garbled response in my father’s voice. Stomp, stomp, stomp.

“So what! Just because those assholes were fawning all over her doesn’t mean you have to too.”

I could tell from Mom’s voice that she had reached the top of the stairs and had turned to confront my father.

“Shhhhh,” he said.

I could tell just from that, Dad was pissed.

“Don’t shush me. Do you know how foolish you all look, trying to be so witty and trying to sneak look up that ridiculously sluttish dress?”

That drew a drunken laugh in response.

“Ohhhhh. You’re such an asshole!”

Slam. The bedroom door. Dad’s feet stumbling down the stairs. I guess he was sleeping in the spare room tonight. I guess Dad and the other salesmen were flirting with the boss’ wife again. I had heard this all before, but never this bad. Dad’s boss and his wife would get tipsy and he would start bragging about his young trophy, a woman from the other side of the tracks who had been popular with the boys in Mom and Millie’s school year, because she was available to party after the other girls had been taken home. She had made it good when she met and married Dad’s boss, after his first wife died of cancer, and she wasted no opportunity to rub her new position in the face of those who once spurned her friendship. She was a voluptuous woman but had a tacky and coarse way about her that many men found appealing, especially when drunk.

It sounded like Dad had gone too far and embarrassed Mom. I made myself scarce the next day, spending the day driving around by myself. Tim wanted to hang around home, the bastard. I called home in the afternoon and explained to Mom that I had gone for a drive and lost track of time so I would be late for dinner.

“I would have liked to do that today,” she said. I cursed myself for the lost opportunity to be with Mom all day. “Don’t worry about dinner, dear. I didn’t make anything. See you when you get home. Drive safely.”

Man, she must really be mad at Dad not to make Sunday dinner. What had he done?

I had stopped for a burger on the way home so the house was dark when I arrived home even though it was still early in the evening. I let myself in and quietly tiptoed to my bedroom. My parents door was closed tight which was unusual, except for the night before when Mom had shut Dad out. Was he still sleeping downstairs in the guest room? Wide awake, I read a book rather than go downstairs to watch TV, fearing an encounter with either of my parents. I didn’t hear a single sound until I finally went to bed.

Even though I was up early my father was still gone when I came down for breakfast. Mom was sitting on one of the tall breakfast stools along the counter that ran perpendicular from the back door and divided the kitchen from the stairs leading down to the basement.

“Morning Mom,” I greeted her rather cheerily for me, perhaps in a subliminal attempt to raise her spirits for our mutual benefit.

“Morning,” Mom mumbled past her coffee mug just before it met her lips, not looking up from the morning paper.

I busied myself getting a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, setting them on the counter at the far end from Mom, leaving an empty stool between. Getting the milk from the fridge, I walked around the counter to Mom’s side to sit down, talking as I moved.

“Dad’s not up yet?” I asked in a surprised tone.

“Gone,” her answer was terse and abrupt, and she still didn’t look up.

That was fortunate because I missed the bowl as I poured my milk spilling some on the counter before I recovered and stumbling onto the stool, half missing the seat. The thing I hadn’t noticed while preparing my breakfast was that Mom had come downstairs with just her nightdress on. Normally, she was either dressed or tightly wrapped in her floor length robe and fluffy slippers. Daring to cast my eyes her way again since her head was still buried in the paper, I followed her legs down to her feet, both sans slippers and bare, one hooked into the lower and one in the upper rung joining the stool’s legs.

I looked quickly away when the newspaper rattled but Mom was simply taking another sip of coffee so my gaze gravitated back to her legs, in particular, the outer one whose knee was raised so her foot could rest on the higher rung. This allowed Mom’s elbow to rest just above her knee, taking the weight of her arm and the coffee cup she held in her hand. It also tensed the muscles in her leg and lifted it high enough for me to see the bottom of her thigh, visible because the sharp angle up from her hip let the nightdress, originally almost knee length, slip down to her upper thigh.

I loved the form of the ‘S’ curve that fell in a slow arc from under Mom’s knee, swelling with the burgeoning flesh of her legs covered by ever softer skin until it reversed itself and disappeared under the hem of her nightdress. I was still looking, spoonful of cereal in my mouth, when Mom spoke.

“I know,” she said quietly. “They’re not what they used to be.”

Mom was holding her mug and looking right at me, her reference to her legs clearly showing she knew where I was looking. I got the lump out of my throat sufficiently to swallow the cereal in my mouth without choking but not enough to speak calmly, but that was ok because Mom carried on, looking down at her leg as she spoke. I liked that because it allowed me to look back at her leg and Mom didn’t pull her nightdress up to cover it. In fact, she lifted her foot up a little, exposing her leg even more, purportedly to help with her self-examination.

“My skin looks so loose now, not tight like it used to be. No wonder your father and his cronies were trying to look up that slut’s dress, she wears it so short.”

Stunned, I watched as Mom dropped both hands to the top of her legs and pulled her nightdress back almost to her hips in demonstration. Though her legs were too tightly pressed together for me to see between her legs, her right leg was raised sufficiently for me to follow the back of her thigh down until I saw the line of a pair of pale blue panties stretched across the bottom of her legs, provoking an immediate response in the same general area of my own groin.

“Mom,” I stammered, “your legs are better than hers,” I said, inadvertently indicating that I knew exactly who she was talking about. Unfortunately, Mom picked up on my slip.

“Who’s legs?” she asked, looking up.

“Well ... uh, Dad’s boss’ wife, I guess. She’s the one that Tim’s Mom always complains about.” I looked away awkwardly, then back at her, my eyes falling to her legs as I continued. “Anyway, if you wore dresses as short as she did, those guys wouldn’t give her a second glance,” I said, nodding as if my own confirmation would strengthen my own theory.

“Really?” Mom sounded pleased, looking down, leaving me free to admire her leg. She pulled her other foot up to the higher rung and, with both feet raised up on her toes, swung away from the counter, her legs parting a good eight inches they moved. I was staring straight down a long channel to a swath of pale blue slashing through a bracket of tanned brown legs that somehow conveyed soft, yielding tenderness.

“Do you really think so?” I could sense that Mom was looking at my face to verify the truth of what I was saying but I kept my eyes firmly fixed on her panties, somehow feeling it was allowed and knowing there was not a shred of dishonesty in what I was saying.

“Absolutely, they’re awesome.” I sensed rather than saw Mom smile. Did she know I was staring at her panties and not her legs?

“Well, your father should be smart enough to know that. He should be more like his son,” she huffed, snapping her legs shut and swinging them back towards the counter, picking up her coffee mug and looking at the paper now spread flat on the counter. I finished my breakfast, taking as much opportunity as I wished to look at Mom’s legs, still mostly exposed because she had neglected to push her nightdress back to her knees, leaving me with the view I had initially enjoyed. Periodically, Mom muttered to herself which, together with the fact that she never turned the page, I surmised indicated lingering hurt and deep anger at my father. When my cereal was finished, I left quietly and didn’t say anything except for a muted goodbye as I left for school.

Dinner was a quiet affair that night, neither of my parents seeming to be in the mood to talk. Dad finished dinner quickly and disappeared into the living room. I was about to escape to my room too when Mom asked if I was going to help her with the dishes again like I had last week, adding a loud comment about how was nice it was to have one useful man around the house. I guess the fight was still in full force and effect.

I started clearing the dishes from the table but Mom left. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

Mom returned only minutes later. She must have spilled something during dinner because she had changed from the slacks she’d been wearing into a loosely pleated skirt that fell short of her knees. But that didn’t make sense. If Mom had spilled something on her slacks, she would have finished the dishes first before changing. As I waited while she filled the sink, my eyes traced the slender columns of her legs and I remembered the exciting view I’d had that morning between her thighs.

Mom spoke as she dumped the cutlery into the filling sink.

“I was talking to Millie this afternoon.” She paused as if waiting for me to say something.

“Oh yeah,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could though my breath was catching in my throat. This was it.

“She really wants to go see a movie again ... at the drive-in.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said as if this was news to me though my voice was breathier and I was afraid I would give myself away.

“This Saturday.”

“Uh huh.” I may have only got the second of those two syllables out loud enough to hear.

“She said Tim is getting slagged at school because the kids think those college girls dumped you guys.”

Mom’s body started shaking as she turned the water off and began scrubbing one of the glasses she’d put in on top of the soaking knives and forks. I watched her pleated skirt shake and my thoughts jumped to the quivering mounds of flesh that caused such tantalizing movements. Those sexy, jiggling things moved as if they had a mind of their own, jostling seemingly unencumbered beneath the plaid covering.

Tim’s description of his mom’s pleated skirt suddenly seared into my brain. Had Mom changed into that skirt on purpose, for my benefit? Had Millie told her about what she was letting Tim do?

Fuck, I had a boner already. Awkwardly, I moved my legs around, finally reaching down to realign my cock into a more comfortable position. She couldn’t be wearing anything under that skirt. There was no way those pleats could move like that if her bum was constrained, even if she was wearing bikini panties that only reached halfway up her butt.

“What?” I said. Mom had to repeat her question. I had missed it.

“I said, do you want me to help you too?”

I hesitated, somehow not ready for what I had been waiting so long to hear.

“I don’t have to, if you don’t want me to,” Mom interpreted my pause incorrectly.

“No, I do. Please Mom, that would be great.” I stepped close behind her and put my hands on her shoulders. “I’d love your help,” I lowered my voice, allowing my groin to graze the back of her jiggling skirt.

“It won’t be like last time,” Mom responded. “We’ll just make it look like you’re out with your college girls again, nothing more.” Her shoulder stiffened, dampening my rising lust, but she didn’t pull away from my touch. It was the tone of her voice that pushed me away, a definite signal that I was presuming too much.

Though I kept my distance while drying the dishes I kept my eyes on Mom’s enticing buttocks and she seemed quite happy to keep moving it around in this new eye-catching fashion. I guess I was welcome to look.

And that is how the week played out. Though I didn’t approach Mom again I was sure my touch would have been no more welcome but the visual show continued all week despite warming relations between my parents. On Friday, Dad left after dinner for his regular bowling game with the boys and Mom disappeared upstairs, returning moments later dressed for bed, robe and all. I guess there was to be no jostling tease the night before the big show.

Mom filled the sink, dumping the cutlery in to soak followed by the glassware, as usual, but she didn’t immediately begin washing. Instead, she stood with her hand on the tap, waiting for the suds to near the top edge of the sink and when it did she shut it off and walked over to the table where she stopped. Her elbows bent as she lifted her hands in front of her to fuss with something and seconds later I understood what as she lifted her robe from her shoulders and shrugged it down her arms, slipping it off and draping it over the back of a kitchen chair.

Mom turned back and walked toward the sink without looking at me. She was wearing a nightdress, much like the one she’d worn the past Monday morning but a little shorter and with just ribbon straps over the shoulders to hold it up. It appeared to be the only thing she was wearing, a conjecture that was confirmed as Mom leaned against the sink and started washing the dishes, the thin nightie covering her bottom leaving absolutely no doubt that there was nothing constraining her quivering cheeks.

I was in heaven. I stared in awe up and down Mom’s legs, but mostly at her quivering buns, as Mom seemed to take special care again to ensure that each and every dish was impeccably clean. No. I lied. I snuck a few glances around the side to watch the side of her breasts bounce up and down with her vigorous arm movements, their cleaning action seeming to intensify whenever they sensed my close scrutiny.

Towards the end, my ardent attention leaving me in quite a fix, I leaned close to Mom to thank her for helping me out tomorrow night at the drive-in. Of course, I let my throbbing, bulging jeans press in to feel the warmth of those oscillating globes and was again treated to my mother’s mild rebuke.

“You’re welcome, dear, but remember that it’s not going to be like you think, the way it was last time. That was an accident and it won’t happen again.”

As before, Mom didn’t push me away and this time I didn’t voluntarily pull back. Her tone was less intimidating but, even so, I wasn’t about to be put off of this gloriously soft and warm flesh by just a stern voice.

Nevertheless, I was surprised when Mom allowed me to continue pressing against her, my bulge worming its way deeper into her softness. I kept my hands to myself and held my ground, even gently nudged further in, while continuing to dry the last remaining dishes. Mom didn’t object, washing the last couple of dishes no faster, or more slowly, than she had the rest. Then, after she finished the last dish and to my further delight, she waited for the sink to drain instead of moving away to wipe the counters. I dried the last few dishes as slowly as I thought I could get away with but she didn’t complain, using the wet cloth to wipe the sink and counter within easy reach, cleaning until I had done the last dish. Only then did I reluctantly pull away, when there was no other obvious reason for us to be standing so close together.