Chapter 09: Panties and a Shirt

I woke early the next morning, but I stayed in my room, watching the clock on my phone strike eight, then a minute after, then another, until five minutes had passed, then another five and then another five. During that time, the mechanical growl of the garage opening told me my father was leaving for work, but still, my mother was going to be in her panties and a shirt for me—all day long. I couldn’t wait, yet my nerves hit me, and they hit me hard.

The beating of my heart went from calm, unfelt throbs to a rapid, skipping pace, like a cymbal’s rounded edge vibrating after receiving the battering of a drumstick. Goosebumps sprouted across my forearms while my small hairs stood on end, bringing with them a chill that caused my shoulders to dance. Little pinpoints of fuzzy lightness danced over my skin, making my palms and the soles of my feet sweat. Disgusting. My breathing rose, every inhale whistling through my nostrils and thickening in my ears, forming a gelatinous cushion between my eardrums and the outside world.

Holy shit.

I needed to get in the moment.

The first thing I did was leave my room, speed-walk to the restroom, and turn on the cold water to full blast. Breathing hard and anticipating the chill, I jump in, the water hitting the outermost edges of my body before the rest of me followed, stepping under its jetting streams and tightening up as the freezing liquid constricted my nerve endings.

Holy shit!

That was dumb, but it did the trick.

By the time I had dried off and dressed in a T-shirt and basketball shorts—basketball shorts minus my boxer briefs, and that had been a tremor inducing decision with my mind screaming, Choose something! as I stood there as still as an asshole during a snowstorm. Eventually, I settled down enough to walk downstairs without suffering a panic attack. I was going to enjoy my mother today, no matter what.

Every step out of my room was another step up a mountain, and the tingling had returned to my palms, along with the sweat—palms only. Jesus, but my mother had a strange effect on me. I didn’t see her at the top of the stairs, so I hurried down at a jog, my feet rumbling down the steps. I turned right and walked straight through the hallway, cutting into the kitchen, and that’s where I found my mother, dressed for me exactly as she had promised to dress for me.

God damn, but I was one lucky son of a bitch.

Mom had chosen a simple combination of clothes, but my cock still rose at the sight of her. She sat at the breakfast nook with her profile to me. A white T-shirt made of thin cotton clung to her body, molding to her breasts, their sides and undersides, and her already rock-hard nipples. The shirt pushed right up to where the underside of her breasts met her chest and then slid straight down, stopping above her belly button and leaving her slim stomach bare, her little belly bottom shallow and kissable to my mind’s eye. A white, lacy, elastic band circled her waist, about a quarter-inch thick, and that was all that I could see from her profile, meaning the rest of her panties lay snuggled between her ass cheeks in some kind of thong or G-string. I hoped she was wearing a G-string.

I had stopped as soon as I had entered the kitchen, and my eyes slid from Mom to the table, where her striped pajama pants lay neatly folded atop her pajama shirt, along with a white, half-cup bra made of transparent threads. My cock thickened. The swelling was so tangible that I felt every blood vessel in my shaft expand until my thickness throbbed from root to tip.

“Morning,” Mom said, not looking up from her coffee and paper.

“Morning,” I said, my voice breaking like a kid’s going through puberty.

Mom laughed, almost spilling her coffee, but she still didn’t look at me. This was supposed to be business as usual, and I understood that, so I told myself.

While I did understand our arrangement, that didn’t mean I was only going to take my glances as they came. I made myself some cereal and stood on the inside half of the island, leaning against the marble top with my vision in line with Mom’s profile. I stared at her naked thigh, her hip, the outer half of her ass cheek, and her bare midriff. It was too bad she had her chair pulled in close to the table; otherwise, I’d at least get to see her back and her cheeks down to the chair’s seat, but she’d have to stand soon enough.

Mom read her paper, and she let me watch as she sipped her coffee, taking her time and pretending as if I wasn’t there, perving on her in ways a good son never would. I spent time admiring her breasts. Her shirt was so thin and tight that I could see how her nipples created a darker shade of color against the fabric. Her areoles looked small and beaded with goosebumps, but it was her nipples that stole the show.

They had been hard when I had entered the kitchen, but I swear I watched them thicken further, becoming larger at their peak while tightening near their base. God, if only I could talk my mother into walking around in her bra and panties, or better still, nothing at all. Shoveling a mouthful of cornflakes into my mouth to hide a moan, I pressed my cock against the island and enjoyed the pressure running through my shaft.

Mom placed her paper down and pushed her coffee aside. She lifted her arms above her head, her long fingers interlaced, and she arched her back as she stretched upward. Her little titties reached upward, the morning light from the patio creating a halo of sunshine around her body, and then she exhaled and pushed her chair away from the table.

“I need to get to work,” Mom said, turning to look at me for the first time that morning. “You’ll be around when I take my first break?”

I nodded my head. Fuck, I should have gone downstairs sooner. Now I had nothing but my memory to preserve this moment. You can take pictures and videos for when you’re alone. Fuck me, but Mom had spoken those words last night. Why’d I leave my phone in my room?

Mom stood, pausing as she faced forward, her head tilting to the left as if she were deciding what side of her body to reveal to me first. Was she? Maybe, I don’t know, but I was eager to see both sides of her, front and back, at the same time. We needed a mirror for her to face. After another second, Mom turned away, giving me a shot of her perfect, pear-shaped backside.

It’s one thing to describe what a floss-like band of nylon running through your mother’s crack looks like, and it’s another to see it live and in person when she wants you to see it. It’s like she’s naked, but not. The string lying between her cheeks hid the most vulnerable spots on her body, like her butthole, yet it presented my vision with the illusions of her crinkly spokes, and that’s what I saw: The illusion of her nakedness.

Mom continued her turn, walking around her chair and facing me. My eyes dropped to the front of her panties, where lacy flowers covered the transparent patch of cloth and formed a triangle over her mound. It was a small triangle, like last night, about an inch of her sunny-hued landing strip visible above the waistline, as the rest of her mound, hips, and thighs lay smooth and exposed to my eyes. The triangle narrowed, almost forming a point as it cupped the tender bulge of her pussy, hiding only her clit and inner lips but leaving the curved swell of her outer labia uncovered.

“Close your mouth, Mark,” Mom whispered. “It’s not polite to chew with your mouth full.”

I shut my mouth, my teeth clicking together hard.

Mom laughed and walked out of the kitchen. It took me a moment to calm myself, but then I chased her down the hallway, watching as her ass rolled with her strides, her butt cheeks sliding against the G-string running through her crack. When she turned at the foyer and walked up the stairs, I followed, but I also waited for my mother to get five steps above me before I chased her up the stairs.

I waited for a reason: Her pussy. I loved the way her small panties cradled the softness of her lips. It was like a hammock trying to contain too much weight. The way her pussy meat bulged and rolled, trapped in that tiny strip of cloth, had taken hold of my gaze and wouldn’t let go. It had turned me into my mother’s obedient boy until she reached the upstairs landing, turned, and hid her pussy from my eyes.

Snapping out of my trance, I made a quick turn at the top of the stairs and darted to my room. I grabbed my phone and ran back to Mom—ran, not speed-walked, but ran—catching her office door a moment before it clicked shut.

Mom turned around, puckered her lips, but then she said, “I need to work.” She looked at me, first into my eyes, and then she glanced down at the hard-on poking against my pants. For a moment, her eyes widened, but then she saw my phone.

“I’ll be downstairs in a couple of hours,” sounding relieved.

I nodded my head.

She looked relieved.

What had she thought I had come here to do?

“I know,” I said, doing my best not to think as I spoke, “but I remembered what you said last night, about the pictures I could take, and I thought, ‘I don’t have enough pictures of you,’ at the moment.” I shrugged. “Can a son have too many pictures of his mother?”

Mom’s face remained calm, so I couldn’t tell if she regretted her words from last night, but finally, she said, “Snap away, but be quick about it.”

I held my camera up, my eyes shifting from my mother to my screen to my mother, and then I said, “Can you pose a little?”

“Pose?”

I nodded.

“How?” Mom asked, her eyes again flicking toward my hard-on.

I had my eyes on my screen, but I saw the downward angle of her gaze.

“Smile,” I said, adding, “or stare, but how about crossing your arms under your”—I swallowed to keep myself from saying tits—”across the front of your stomach? And spread your legs a little.”

Pink swirls of color backlit Mom’s cheeks.

“Step your feet apart, I mean,” I said in a rush of words as tiny beads of sweat pushed through my pores, causing a strained warmth to flow down my forehead and into my cheeks. “Do whatever you want, but try not to be stiff about it.” I stretched my neck to the right. “Why is it so hot in your office?”

Mom tried to hold in a laugh as her eyes darted down to my stiffness again. Fuck it. Let her see. I wanted her to see, and before her eyes could move away from my cock, I flexed my shaft, pulling it inward at the base and tightening the underside of my pole, forcing the head to pop upward.

Mom turned her head to the side, then, after a deep breath, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and stepped her right foot sideways, spreading her legs. The point of her pussy stood out with her legs separated and her cunny lips spreading, finding room to breathe and looking much fuller than they had downstairs. I snapped a picture, and I lowered the phone, finding an angle that gave me the best shot of the inside swells of Mom’s ass that I could see when looking between her thighs.

“Enough?” Mom asked, her voice tight.

“Could you turn around,” I said, making my question a statement. “And grab onto something.” I licked my lips. “Lean forward, I mean.”

Mom’s jaw tightened, and the muscles in her neck rippled. She turned around, giving my eyes the freedom to roam over her ass. The closest thing for her to grab onto her was her chair. With her legs against the seat’s edge, she leaned forward, her arms coming up and her hands resting on the headrest, the stance pushing her butt toward the camera.

“Spread your legs a little,” I said, breathing hard.

I felt like a pervert for making my mother do this, yet, I also felt a thrill lighten my body, making my shoulders dance and my breath shudder. How could something so wrong make my dick so hard?

I loved it.

I hated it.

I didn’t want it to end.

“Perfect,” I whispered. “Mom, that’s the perfect pose.”

Mom’s legs had tightened, the curve of her hamstrings created a sensual rise and fall that partitioned her cheeks from her legs, giving the hint of athleticism to her otherwise slender body. The bottom of her cheeks had spread, creating the illusion of a curtained window focusing on the tight band of white cloth pressing into her slit, forming a from-behind cameltoe that made my mouth water. I saw dampness there, between her legs, spreading outward. Above, where her gusset narrowed into her G-string at her perineum, I saw the rounded edges of her asshole, leading downward into a hole covered by a thin string of nylon.

“Take the pictures,” Mom said, her voice tight and her breathing measured.

I snapped two pictures. I took the first one with a wide lens, keeping my mother’s entire body in the frame, along with her chair and the window at the side of her desk. The next one, I zoomed in on the precious piece of meat between her legs, making sure to capture the dampness of her panties and the impression of her clit. After the second picture, Mom stood, turned around, and sat in her chair, crossing her right leg over her left.

“Run along now,” she whispered as though I were a kid again. “I have to work.”

I noticed fresh sparkles of sweat along her brow before I said, “I’ll see you soon.” I left her room, my cock swinging as I turned my body around. I hoped her eyes flickered down to my crotch one more time. She had to know her teasing wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy me. She had to know, and so the question was: How was I going to tell her that I needed more from her?

I went back to my room to think about that, coming up with a scenario where I walked into her office with a speech in mind, to allowing her to catch me masturbating face to face, to—to weird, surreal fantasies that bordered on science fiction. In the end, I jerked off to Mom’s pictures—making it last as long as I could—fisting several wads of cum into a towel, and then I went downstairs to wait for my mother’s first break of the day.

It took forever, despite having edged myself for an hour to her photos. I filled the second hour with pacing, foot-tapping, regular jerks of my cock, and releasing the anxious waves of energy coursing through my body with push-ups, pull-ups, squats, and lunges. That last hour convinced me of one thing: I was going to put my mother’s determination to keep me from the sex offender’s list to the test as soon as I saw her again. I wasn’t fucking around anymore. I needed pussy, and the pussy that I wanted answered to the title of Mom.

It was nearing noon when my mother came downstairs. She had changed from her T-Shirt into a small but loose, cropped, white tank top made of cotton. Her nipples were thick buds against the fabric. The hem of her shirt hung off her little breasts, baring her stomach from her sternum down and back to those tiny panties again. The whiteness of her outfit made her golden skin and hair shine, along with that small tuft of hair poking out above her G-string.

I lay on the couch opposite the TV, on its left side, the side that allowed me to look up the stairs as my mother walked downward. She saw me watching her, but I’m positive what she saw was me waiting for her in that way I used to wait for my parents when I knew that they were taking me somewhere fun, with fast rides and cotton candy and every treat that a growing boy wanted to get his hands on. Now, though, the treat I wanted was my mother, and her cheeks reddened as my eyes locked onto the pouty pussy between her thighs. (Would teasing me always embarrass her?) The thought made my knob swell.

“Hey,” I said, “good to see you.”

Mom rolled her eyes as she said, “It’s good to see you too.”

I looked down at my shorts and the growing tent, but I don’t think that’s what Mom meant. Hopefully, she looked as well because I gave her at least ten seconds to follow my eyes as my erection sprouted to its full hardness in front of her.

“Talk to me,” Mom said when she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Follow me around while I do things.”

“Yeah,” I said, standing and my cock bobbing as I walked around the couch and stopped in front of her. I topped her by a head while being twice as broad as her, and her smallness sent a tingle through my cock.

It was a strange thing to notice; our size difference, but while my mother was still Superwoman to me, she was also a woman. A very sexy and desirable woman, who now may have been attainable for me. The knowledge took away some of the fear I had for my mother’s authority. When she was teasing me, she wasn’t Superwoman; she was... pussy.

I shivered.

“Walk with me,” Mom said, walking toward the kitchen.

I followed her to the kitchen island, talking to her as she made herself a snack of fruits cut down to bite-sized portions. Every slice of her knife made her titties shake. Mom knew I was looking at them because sometimes she’d say, “Don’t stand with your head hunched; it’s bad for your posture.” Then she’d go back to cutting with a smile on her face. When she had finished cutting her fruits, she pushed her plate to the right so that it lay between us, but I wasn’t in the mood to snack on an array of neatly assorted fruits.

I pulled out my camera, snapping more pictures of her, her cheeks filling with pink with every click of the button. She continued eating even as the digital shutter snapped away. We talked about my senior year of high school, about college, about the possibility of me getting a job to keep me busy.

I laughed when she said that, but then I said, “I think a job would be good for me, but I’m not going to let it ruin my social life.” I smiled at her. “I have commitments.”