Chapter 4

I popped out of the study for a snack. Dinner wasn’t for another three hours. Looking out the kitchen window, I could see Mom gardening in the back yard. She looked quite the suburban mom. She wore a straw hat to shade her from the sun, a checked blouse with a couple of buttons open at the neck because of the heat, proper shorts sufficiently conservative not to mold her ass or cling to her thighs, and of course, green leather gardening gloves so she could grasp her snips without leaving callouses in her palms (like the ones I was building up at night thinking about her, and my Dad and Grandma).

Watching her crouching down on her tanned knees, I was reminded of how she had nestled in my crotch this morning — god, was it only this morning? — while feeding Dad his yogurt. I felt the blood draining from my head as this image filled it, rushing down to fill my groin. As my cock grew in my shorts, Mom turned, smiled and waved as she saw me in the window. I motioned for her to come inside.

Mom rushed in the back door. “Is something wrong?” she panted.

“No, no. I was just about to have a snack and thought you’d like to join me,” I said.

“Oh. Maybe just a big glass of juice and some crackers. Let me make it, dear. You sit down.”

I sat down as Mom began to make us a snack, far more efficiently than I could have. As I watched her, I thought about how she knew about Dad and Grandma, how he knew that she knew, and his fear that she would entice me to cuckold him. Did she know that Dad knew that she knew? Probably not.

Why, then, did she tease Dad by exposing herself to me when she knew he’d see? True, she didn’t show much, and according to Dad’s letter, he thought I didn’t notice. But I was aware, and had acted like I wasn’t because I didn’t want him to find out, partly because she showed me far more when he wasn’t around than when he was.

And now, I think I knew why. She wanted me to be interested in her to spark jealousy in Dad, or payback for his relationship with Grandma, so she treated me with more than the little peeks she awarded when Dad was around, I guess thinking I’d be wound up to be looking at the goods without any provocation from her. But I twigged that it wasn’t quite worthwhile when Dad was around and that, if I didn’t show interest when he was, Mom would try harder to pique my interest by showing me even more when he wasn’t around.

Mom had recently been showing me quite a bit of leg, peeks up her dress, and views down more than partially open blouses, right up to the day I’d left for school after the holidays last Christmas, just before Dad’s stroke. That was the first time I’d actually thought that Mom might be showing herself to me on purpose. It had cranked up from the usual accidental glimpses to blatant ‘accidental’ showings within the ten days holiday over Christmas, more liberally exposing herself so I would be more interested when Dad was around. But now that Dad had had a stroke she was more demure.

On the other hand, she had insisted he could still see and hear, and went along with my little game to entice him from his illness by reliving vivid memories. Why, then, had she not tried to work me up before we fed him? Did she not really believe he could understand what he saw, and so it wasn’t worth the effort to make him jealous?

Or, did she know about the letters? Did she know I would find and read them? Had she known what I was reading when she was standing, for who knows how long, in the study door? Was she leading me to herself through these letters, and thus a long due triumph over Dad? Did she know I would already be primed by the letters? Or did she simply want to avoid any potential escalation because she needed any taboo action to play out in front of him for her to win? Was she not interested in me, despite my Grandma’s advice long ago, but just in making Dad think it was happening? So many questions. I had to find some answers.

Walking up behind her as she was slicing an apple, I put my hands on her shoulder and kissed her cheek. Mom shied away a bit, indicating some discomfort at actual touching, something I’d never attempted except in front of Dad the past couple of days. I kissed her cheek again and nuzzled my nose into her shoulder. She seemed even more uncomfortable.

“You know, Mom, you should change before we visit Dad for dinner. And maybe dress a little more relaxed while we’re alone in the house.”

She resisted this suggestion. “I’ll change before we take Dad his dinner, Dave. But what I’m wearing is fine for the rest of the time.”

“Mom, this is too important for Dad. We have to get it right. We can’t afford to mess up,” I urged, playing up the concerned child act.

She was silent for a moment, not replying as I stood holding her upper arms, refraining from further caresses. Finally, she spoke softly, “What are you thinking then? What do you want me to wear?”

I tried not to let my elation at her response transfer through my hands to her arms and, desperate to keep the excitement from my voice as well, I hesitated before responding. “Well, I think you should wear things that might really jog intense memories, you know, nighties and slips and things like that.”

“I only dressed like that before going to bed,” she argued, still resistant. She didn’t point out to me that he had never really been that interested.

“I know, but we need him to see you like that all the time to increase the chance of sparking a reaction. It’ll help if you wear the kind of night clothes you did when you were younger. If he’s regressed, you probably look more like Grandma to him now, you know, like his own mother.” I don’t know why I said that, but I could feel her stiffen in my arms. She didn’t say anything. I don’t know if she was enjoying that irony, turning it over in her own mind, or not. But what an interesting twist. At first shocked at what had fallen out of my mouth, I now didn’t regret it. See where it goes, I thought.

“Alright,” she said, “I’ll go up earlier and prance around in a slip, like the one I wore this morning. Would that do?” she demanded in a miffed tone.

I pushed it a little further. “I think it will take more than that, Mom. We should bring Dad downstairs to the guest room so he can sit in the kitchen or living room during the day, where he can see you more often.”

That didn’t sit with Mom very well, having Dad around all day, like before. But I persisted, arguing that we needed to do all we could, playing on potential guilt and shame if it became known we hadn’t. In the end she relented, agreeing to move Dad downstairs the next day.

“While we’re at it, Mom, I think we should try to keep in character more often.”

“How do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, I think I should play Dad more, as your husband, so it seems more natural when he’s watching. You know, just hugging you and smooching, like you guys probably did when you were younger,” I suggested.

“But, your Dad never...” her voice trailed off. “OK, Davy. For your Dad.”

I put my arms right around her and gave her a kiss on her cheek. “That’s great, Mom,” I said, then swooped in for a smooch again. I dropped my hand from her upper arms down to her waist, letting them dwell on the swell of her hips. I kissed her several more times on her cheek and in the hollow of her neck, then swooped up for a quick kiss on her ear.

“OK, ok, Romeo,” she protested, pushing me away and taking our snack to the table. We ate our snack, Mom chatting about some neighborhood stuff, and her friends. Uncharacteristically, Mom ate faster than I, finishing sooner. As I was still eating, her voice softened and she said in a quieter, almost conspirational tone, “I’m going upstairs to see if I have any old clothes that might jog Dad’s memory. I’ll call you when it’s time to take his dinner up.” She left me to finish my snack.

I looked at my watch. Two more hours until dinner. Time for another letter. I headed for the study.

This time, though I was searching for letters from Frank, and now Francis, I didn’t just pass by others when I didn’t recognize the name. Francis’ letter had taught me to read a little first. That’s why I read the letter by Calvin when I came across it.

Hello group. My name is Calvin. I hope my story doesn’t drag on too much. It isn’t as exciting as some of yours. I’m not very good at writing so I’ll just get right to it.

My Mom is tall and slim, with black hair that she wears long, either just the way it is or pulled together with a scrunchie at the back of her neck. I was aware my Mom was attractive. Lots of men looked at her, and so did other women. You know how much women look at other women, checking each other out. I knew my Mom was seen as challenging competition by other women just the way they looked at her when she couldn’t see them; but I could.

But I never saw my Mom in a sexual way. Never. That is, until Mom decided to work at home, cutting hair to earn some extra money that she could spend herself. She thought it would work as a business since we lived on the edge of downtown and it would be convenient for people — men that is, because she didn’t feel she was skilled enough to cut a woman’s hair. Dad was against it, and wouldn’t help. So she wanted to practice on me.

After dinner, Mom kept me behind, sitting me on a kitchen chair she used as a barber’s chair. I pleaded with her not to wreck my hair, to embarrass me at school. She promised to just trim it a little and started in.

I don’t know exactly when, but at some point I became aware of Mom. The softness of her thigh or hip as she bumped into me while working on my hair, the press of her belly against my sides, the feel of her soft hands as she caressed my neck, snipping here and there. She probably wouldn’t have be so familiar with real customers but I was her only son, after all, and she probably didn’t think anything of bumping against me.

As Mom snipped away, I found myself not wanting to leave. I was enjoying the little brushes of her body and the feel of her fingers on my neck and head as she tilted it this way and that. And then she did it. She stood directly in front of me, between my outstretched legs, and leaned far over, intently eyeing my brow as she carefully trimmed above my eyes.

But my eyes found something else. A glimpse of two little treasures hanging down, just perceptible through the gap between Mother’s neck and her blouse as it hung away from her body. I had a perfect view down my mother’s shirt. Guiltily, I pulled my eyes away, afraid of being caught. But Mother was still intent on my brow, carefully snipping away. Despite the fact she was looking right at my forehead, I let my eyes stray down again, drinking in the fantastic sight of her dangling breasts, exposed more than I’d ever seen, even when she wore a bikini, the lacy bra covering only the very tips.

I stared and stared. I forgot all about the potential of getting caught until I was startled out of my reverie by Mom’s voice, “There,” she stood up and stepped back, “That looks good.” She turned to pick up a hand mirror from the table. “What do you think?” she asked holding the mirror up for my inspection. I was surprised, she hadn’t noticeably cut anything, but it did look better.

“That’s great, Mom. You could really be a barber.”

“Whoa, there,” Mom laughed, “I think it will take a little more practice before I can do that,” she countered. As I stood up and Mom collected her scissors and stuff, she asked me, “Do you think you could let me practice some more next week, Calvin?”

I hesitated, not because I was reluctant, not after the display I’d been privy to for the last few minutes. I was just caught off guard. But Mom seemed to think I was reluctant.

“I need more practice,” she added.

The thought of her leaning over in front of me again prompted a quick reaction. “No problem, Mom,” I finally answered. That night I rubbed my cock until I fell asleep, thinking about Mom’s breasts, conjuring up vivid, enhanced images of her dangling breasts encased in a lacy bra that somehow now allowed me to see her nipples.

All through the week at school, I kept daydreaming in class about my Mom’s breasts. I was chided several times in different classes for not paying attention. I couldn’t think of anything else at school or at home for that matter. When we finished dinner each night the following week, Mom stayed behind to clean up, but shooed me out of the kitchen whenever I tried to stay and help her. When Mom finished in the kitchen, she would join Dad and I in the living room to watch TV. My hopes for another haircut were dwindling. At the end of the second sitcom almost a week later, Mom looked over at Dad.

“Are you going to let me practice on your hair tonight, dear?” My hopes diminished rapidly, dying.

“What?” my father asked, a little incredulously. Without even turning to look at her, he responded energetically, “No bloody way! Do Calvin again.”

“I don’t think he wants to, honey,” Mom whined, “Be a sport, it’s your turn.”

Ignoring her, father barked, “Go help your mother, Calvin.” And that was that.

I followed Mom into the kitchen, dragging a chair out while she got her scissors and brushes out and laid them on the table. “I’m sorry, Calvin, but it’s a big help to me, you know.”

“That’s OK, Mom,” I replied, “I don’t mind, really.” She had no idea how little I minded.

“I’ll make it up to you, sweetie, I promise,” she went on, “I really do appreciate it.”

“No problem, Mom.” I sat down, settling in to wait for her to get to the good part.

Mom started in. I was far more sensitive this time to every bump and brush, every stroke of her fingers and guidance by her hand. I could feel myself hardening, interpreting every touch as unnecessary yet intentional. After all, the lady that cut my hair never touched me so much, not so I noticed anyway.

When Mom put her scissors down without trimming my front. I was very disappointed. Afraid she wasn’t going to get to the good part, the front, I asked if she had forgot to do it. My voice was a little shaky as I wasn’t able to cover my concern completely.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, her own voice sounding a little funny, “I just need to rest my eyes for a moment because it takes so much concentration to do the front,” she added. As she stood there, facing partly away from me with her near hand resting on her hip, I could see her other hand crooked up to her chest. “I do appreciate you doing this for me, Calvin,” she misinterpreted the concern in my voice, “I know it’s taking a long time.”

“I don’t mind, Mom. Really,” I replied. “Take all the time you want. I like helping you.”

“Really?” she asked. “You’re such a sweet boy, son.” She picked up her scissors and turned back to face me. “Let’s get started on the front then, shall we?”

Before she leaned over, I noticed something that made my cock leap against my jeans. While turned away, Mom had loosened two of the buttons on her blouse. As she stood in front of me, holding the scissors out to her side, her blouse pulled apart in the front, exposing the swell of her breasts. Her shirt parted all the way to below her solar plexus. I had never seen Mom wear a blouse unbuttoned that far down.

“It’s OK if I take my time then?” she asked, smiling sweetly at me.

“Oh, yes,” I assured her, “I want you to be really careful. Take all the time you need, Mom.”

She leaned over toward me, slowly. As her hair fell from her back to her sides, over her ears, her blouse began to drop away from her chest. I never looked at her eyes. I was focused on her chest. Lower, lower, lower. She was bent almost horizontal. The gap between her collar bones and her blouse was much greater than the week before. And there they were, what I’d waited all week to see, dangling before my eyes, her two breasts. But this time I could see a lot more since her blouse was far looser and something else, she was wearing a different bra. This bra was made of some silky material that let her nipples show through and it was also smaller, a half cup push up type, I guess, that showed a lot more of her tits.

I was in awe! Mom spent a lot of time bent over in front of me, much longer than the week before. I couldn’t help getting really, really hard. If Mom hadn’t been concentrating so hard, she could easily have seen the lump in my pants. I don’t know how she couldn’t have noticed me admiring her breasts. She just had to know, and she didn’t give any indication that she minded. She must have been letting me see on purpose, otherwise why would she have loosened her blouse before starting on the front? This thought made me even harder.

Eventually, Mom did finish. She stood and held a mirror up for me to inspect her handiwork. I gushed my enthusiasm for her skill, the euphoria of spending nearly half an hour ogling her tits spilling over. I put the chair away and left the kitchen but returned a few seconds later to ask her if she wanted to practice again next week, or even earlier. When I re-entered the kitchen, Mom was buttoning up her blouse. She blushed when she saw me but answered that yes, she would like to practice some more on a regular basis, twice a week if I didn’t mind. Blushing myself, I assured Mom that I would love to help her out, as often as she needed me. Feeling a little awkward, I left.

Several days later, Mom again asked me if I’d help her practice cutting hair again. She didn’t ask Dad, probably knowing his answer and not wanting to disturb him while the game was on. We went to the kitchen and Mom made short work of trimming the top, sides and back of my hair. Then she stopped again. I could hear her fidgeting around behind me for a little longer than a few days ago. My cock began swelling in anticipation as I now understood that she was probably undoing a couple of buttons on her blouse to provide me with my reward. I hoped she would fuss around with the front for as long, or even longer since she had shortened the time she spent on the rest.

Mom finally came into view in front of me. “Are you ready for me to do the front?” she asked.

I simply nodded, afraid to trust my voice, I was so pent up. I was extremely pleased to see that the buttons were indeed undone on her blouse. There was something different, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Mom had an odd little smile on her face, but I didn’t think that was it. Anyway, I just wanted to start looking at her tits again, so I was impatient for her to lean over and start the show. But she stood there for a moment longer, smiling that odd smile, before finally bending over.

I couldn’t stop myself from craning my neck a little as she bent over, quite slowly this time. I guess that made it a little obvious what I was doing but she didn’t seem to take any notice. Finally, she was bent over horizontal and her shirt dropped from her chest leaving the same substantial gap I had enjoyed so much days earler. Ah, there they were, the tops of her breasts, if anything, showing more than the last week. Could she have found an even smaller bra, my mind asked as my eyes fixed on her lovely globes.

It took a moment for the truth to penetrate my breast-numbed mind. They were bare. She wasn’t wearing a bra! My mother wasn’t wearing a bra. I was stunned. I could see her nipples, clutching onto the swell of her breasts as they dangled there.

“Stay still, Calvin.”

I must have been moving my head in time to the sway of my mother’s tits. I held my face rigidly still, following her swinging globes with my eyes as her hand movements stimulated erotic movement below her chest. My cock was hardening by the second, I could feel it busting against my jeans. It was faster than my mind.

Mom fussed with my hair for a long time, focusing exclusively on the front. I had an unrestricted view of her gorgeous, swaying tits. Her nipples, soft when I first saw them, slowly stiffened, hardening into a substantial length. My observation period was so long that I noticed a fine detail. As her nipples stiffened, they didn’t harden straight down in line with her hanging tits. No, they stiffened toward me. I imagine that, had she stood up, they would point upwards from her tits at almost a 45 degree angle. And outward a bit.

Mom straigntened up sharply when she heard Dad rustling in the living room, getting out of his chair. She turned away from the kitchen doorway, facing partly away from me as well but with her back squarely away from the kitchen doorway. I could see that she was quickly doing up her buttons. So she was definitely giving me a show on purpose! My cock turned to steel.

“You two just about done?” Dad asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Almost,” Mom replied, walking to the sink, her back to Dad.

“Mom’s just going to practice trimming my mustache,” I blurted out.

Mom added, “That’s right, dear. We’ll be a little longer, honey.”

“Well, I’m going to bed. Try to be quiet when you come up. And keep the TV down, Calvin,” he glared at me.

After Dad left there was no motion in the kitchen for a moment or two. I took advantage of the fact that Mom wasn’t right in front of me to slip my fingers under my jeans and pull my poor bent tool straight. Mom eventually came up behind me and placed her hand on my shoulder, moving it along my neck, stroking softly back and forth.

“Can I really trim your mustache, Calvin?”

“Yeah, Mom. You’ll have to know how to do mustaches.”

“Oh, sweetie, you try so hard to help me and your Dad won’t even let me practice on him once. This is really important to me. I won’t forget it.” She sounded serious, intense, and really ticked at Dad, the way her voice tightened when she mentioned him.

I could hear her rustling behind me before she came around to stand once more in front of me. Her buttons were undone again! My cock starting to grow again, quickly regaining the ground it had lost with the sudden appearance of my father, but now that it was straightened, its head poked above the waistband of my jeans. Thankfully, I had pulled my shirt out to cover the fact that I was simply providing some relief to my poor bent cock.

Mom was smiling very sweetly at me. “It is very warm tonight, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’m almost too hot in my shirt,” I replied, “I had to pull it out,” indicating my shirtail covering the front of my jeans.

“You can take your shirt off if you like,” Mom offered.

“No, no, I’m fine,” I blustered. God, I’d be in for it if I took off my shirt and she saw the top of my cock sticking out.

She was holding a fine-toothed comb in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other.

“Hold these for a minute,” she said.

I took the instruments from her. Still smiling sweetly, she unbuttoned another button on her blouse. “Do you mind if I get a little more comfortable, Cal?”

“No, no, Mom. Go ahead,” I was surprised at her calling me Cal. Everyone at school called me Cal, but my mom never shortened my name.

“Thanks.” She raised her hands to her blouse and threaded yet another button through its slot. Her blouse was now unbuttoned so far that I could just see her sexy navel dipping in from the gentle swell of her tanned tummy. Full staff, I was up to full staff. “I really do appreciate your letting me practice, honey.” Mom reserved ‘honey’ for Dad. I was always ‘sweetie’ or ‘sweetheart’. Past full staff.

“I’ll help anytime, for as long as you like, Mom.”

Her eyes softened. She reached out and patted my cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered so softly I could hardly hear, interpreting her words more from the shape of her mouth, which now caught my attention. Her lips seemed full and sexy, something I hadn’t noticed before.

Taking her tools back, Mom bent over in front of me again. Down, down, down until her bare tits swayed once more in front of me. Her nipples were still hard and I realized why she had kept her back to Dad.

“It really is hot,” I said, for no apparent reason other than reacting to feeling like I was burning up inside.

“Don’t talk,” Mom replied, turning her head toward the stairs to listen.

I enjoyed the show Mom proceeded to give me even more, excited beyond words by the knowledge that she was purposely giving me a show she knew she had to hide from Dad. Although I hadn’t covered my tracks well before, I made no attempt at all to do so now. I brazenly stared down her blouse. In fact, at one point, when her blouse obscured my view, I reached up to push it aside with my fingers.

Misinterpreting my action again, Mom whispered, “Listen for your Dad, honey, if you’re going to do that.”

Do what? Did she think I was going to touch her? Was she saying she was OK with it?

My hand was frozen in mid air where I’d left it, holding her blouse out to ensure a clear view of her tits. Slowly, I willed it to move toward her tit. Was I sure? What if I was wrong? Like pushing a wet noodle, my wavering hand slowly made its way to her tit until I finally grasped the dangling pear in my upturned hand, her nipple resting in my palm.

“Don’t make any sudden moves, honey,” Mom whispered, “I do have scissors near your eyes.”

There was no recrimination, no anger in her voice. I reached up to grasp her other tit. Carefully, afraid to move suddenly, I massaged her tits. She continued trimming my mustache. After a few minutes, her nipples growing in my palms, my palms bending them around in small circles, she whispered to me again.

“I’m just going to sit down to steady myself, honey,” she said quietly, then adding in a whisper, “on your lap.”

She moved forward, her legs widening to straddle my thighs, and sat down on me. My cock, the whole head of which was poking out above my jeans, was smothered in a soft, warm pillow as her panties encased it. Her skirt fell to the side, covering my legs as well as hers. The tip of my cock pulsed up against the very warm pussy pressing down on it, separated only by Mom’s panties. My hands still gripped her bare tits under her blouse, although they had swung around so that her nipples were now accented by my thumbs and fingers that squeezed them between. I had been right, her nipples did stand up. They jutted up toward my face, which was now only two inches in front of them.

Mom dropped her hands down onto my shoulders, not trimming my hair at all, or making any pretense to. I squeezed her tits, forcing her nipples out further still. Her arm came up behind my head, tilting it forward and to the side, toward her right breast. My lips pressed against it. I was too shocked to open my mouth. She pressed harder, forcing my lips open, shoving her nipple into my mouth. She started to rock my head on her tit.

“Suck it,” she whispered, “suck me, Cal.”

Numbly, I started sucking my mother’s tit.

“That’s it,” she cooed, “that’s it. Suck me, suck my tits.”

It felt like her nipple was growing longer and longer in my mouth. I noticed that her hips were gently rocking on my cock, back and forth, in time with my sucks on her tit. I could feel her nipple reaching almost to the back of my mouth as she forced her tit further in. She began rocking her pussy more rapidly on my cock as her breath grew increasingly ragged.

“Oh yeah, yeah, oh yeah,” she kept repeating, over and over.

I couldn’t move much but I tried to force my cock up against her pussy, where it was soft and damp and hot. As her words merged into one long, guttural ‘yeeeaaah’ and her hips reached a frantic pace, I felt my load surge up my shaft and explode onto my stomach under my shirt.

Mom’s paced slowed and then stopped except for an occasional twitch. Her breathing slowly returned to a soft pant as she regained her breath. She laid her head by my shoulder and whispered, “I guess we got a little carried away, huh, sweetie?”

I nodded, my face rubbing against her cheek which was damp with sweat. She went on, “Did you like it?”

I nodded again, still unable to speak. She pulled her head back and took my face in her hands, “I’m glad” she said. She kissed me several times on my face, then briefly on my mouth, right on my lips. “Now you know how much I appreciate your support.” She rocked her hips as if to emphasize her point, and smiled.

“Do you want to keep helping me?”

I nodded again. “That’s great,” she said. She lowered her face to mine once more, pressing her lips against mine for another kiss. After a minute, her tongue slipped between my lips into my mouth. We necked, sitting there in the kitchen, french kissing for several more minutes. Her pussy pressed on my cock and my hands began massaging her tits again. But a moment later, she stood up. “I won’t be able to sleep if you do keep doing that. Wait until our next practice, honey.”

Before she could turn away I blurted out, my eagnerness obvious, “When?”

Mom laughed, a low laugh. “We’ll see. We’ll have to wait at least a few days.” She paused briefly, looking pensive, then said “I can’t do more than this, you know.” Looking down into my lap, she smiled and added, “But don’t wear jeans next time.” She turned in the doorway to give me a big smile.