Chapter 9

I slept in until almost noon the next day. There was nobody around when I wandered downstairs which wasn’t unusual. Mom was normally gone by this time, golfing or visiting friends. Mary was likely around somewhere, possibly in Dad’s room, and Paul was probably at school, like I should be. I grabbed a quick cup of java and sauntered into the study, still wearing just my pajama bottoms.

I turned on the monitor and loaded the surveillance program to see if anything had happened this morning other than breakfast chit-chat. While the recordings were loading, I shuffled through one of the newer bundles of letters. An update from Lorne distracted me from watching the morning’s recordings.

I first told you about Lorne in Chapter 7. He was the whiner who had tricked his mom into believing his group of friends were getting some from their moms but he wasn’t because he was adopted. He had played this hand well enough that his mom let him kiss her, touch her ass, and even rubbed herself on him when she got carried away necking with him.

Hey, Lorne here. I haven’t figured my mom out yet. I’ve had two chances to get close to her. The first time she let me neck with her but wouldn’t let me see her tits, or commit to letting me take pictures like I told her the other guys got to do. Several days passed before the second time when she let me stay home sick from my summer job. She just wanted to talk to me about being with a woman but we necked anyway. With her laying on top of me, she got carried away and rubbed herself on me until I came. I’m not sure if she did or not, but I think so.

I don’t know how far Mom will let me go. I’m sure she’s only doing this because she believes me when I say the other moms are and she doesn’t want me to be the only one left out. On the other hand, she waited days before letting me do something the second time, and it’s been over a week since then. She doesn’t exhibit any remorse so I don’t think she’s holding back because of guilt or anything like that, but she isn’t exactly keen either. By the time she let’s me do something, I’ve got blue balls and I’m ready to really have at her.

Thinking about what she’d said to me about women, I tried to be more aloof, to intrigue the woman I was interested in, as she put it. So, hard as it was, no pun intended, I decided to wait her out. This meant I was jerking off about four times a day. I tried to be around her a lot but without paying attention to her. When I got the urge to check out her body, I avoided her all together so she wouldn’t catch me looking at her all the time like I’d done the last time. Maybe this was the wrong approach because, after all, when I’d done that before she had let me pretend to be sick and came to see me after Dad left. But that was also after I said the guys didn’t believe I was getting anywhere. So I tried to convince myself that what really worked was doing something unexpected, and avoiding her was certainly not expected.

So I was sitting in the living room reading when Mom came in with a basket of laundry and began folding it and separating it into piles of mine, hers and Dad’s on the couch. I was sitting in Dad’s chair in the corner and she positioned herself right in front with her back to me, which wasn’t where she usually stood when she did this. I couldn’t help checking her out when she bent over to get clothes to fold from the basket.

I tried to keep to my plan of not staring at her, or approaching her first, but it was difficult. Mom was wearing a sleeveless blouse which showed off her nicely tanned arms, and a pleated skirt which fell almost to her knees but still showed off her nice legs, especially when she bent over to get stuff from the basket. Trying to be discreet, I only looked when she was bending over but my glances became longer and longer. But then, Mom was bending over longer and longer, evidently searching for a particular item to fold. When I noticed this, I realized that Mom was trying to attract my attention, quietly flaunting herself in a subtle way.

My attention then stayed on her even when straightened up to fold stuff, enjoying the outlines of her legs, the shake of her breasts which I could see from behind and to the side, and the toss of her hair when she stood up from retrieving an item. Every movement she made was so feminine. I could feel my excitement grow as I became convinced she was purposely putting on a little display for me.

I was surprised when she abruptly left the room but she returned just a few minutes later with another basket full of sheets and towels just before I adjusted myself to make it a little more comfortable for myself. I was pleased when she resumed her activities right in front of me again, working slowly rather than with the brisk efficiency she typically employed when doing housework. I certainly didn’t want her to finish any time soon, that’s for sure, and I wished Dad had gone fishing instead of puttering around in the yard.

Mom hadn’t spoken to me the whole time she’d been folding clothes until she leaned over and then paused, reaching back to lay her hand flat on her right cheek.

“Oh,” she complained, “I’m getting old.” She pulled her skirt to scratch herself and then rubbed the hand up and down on her buttock, raising the skirt up high enough on each pull that I could see her panties come into view.

I didn’t say anything, my attention firmly focused on her backside. Mom didn’t look back, allowing me to watch at my heart’s content, but I’m sure she knew where my mind and my eyes were. After a minute of this display, she resumed her folding.

“So,” she said, startling me out of my reverie, “Are your friends showing you a little more respect now?”

“Respect?” I stumbled out.

“You know,” she went on, “because now you can tell them you can do the same kind of stuff they do.” She didn’t look back at me, as if she didn’t want to look at me and talk about it at the same time.

“Oh, that,” I remarked as casually as I could. “I haven’t really said anything.”

Mom stopped, still not looking at me. “You haven’t said anything?” She paused, then started folding the same towel over again. “Why not?”

“I thought it that was kind of special, you know, just for you and me to know.”

Mom stopped folding the towel again. I couldn’t tell what she thought about that, but I meant it. Even if I really was telling guys stuff, I don’t think I’d tell anyone about our last time together, about her rubbing herself on me. She started folding again, same towel for the third time.

“They wouldn’t believe me without proof, anyway,” I added.

Mom finished the towel and leaned down to get another one, quickly this time, like she usually did, and folded it just as fast.

“Go see if your father is ready for lunch,” she said, grabbing a sheet and starting to fold it.

When Dad came in, we sat down for some soup and sandwiches. Lunch time banter was the typical daily fair until Mom suddenly struck out on a tangent, “John, you know that fancy digital camera you have at work, are you using it much?”

“Nope,” Dad replied.

“Is anyone else using it?” Mom queried further.

“I don’t think so,” Dad answered, “It mostly just lays around until someone needs it, which isn’t much. We haven’t used it since the Denison project.”

“Do you think I could use it?” Mom asked, “I want to take some close up pictures of our flowers. They’re so beautiful now. You could take it back if someone needed it.”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll bring it home on Monday.”

“Can’t you get it today?” Mom asked, “I’d like to start tomorrow, it’s supposed to be nice out.”

“Tomorrow?” Dad complained. “Can’t it wait until Monday? I was going to take Lorne fishing. We haven’t gone for years.”

“But I don’t know how to work these new cameras and Lorne promised to help me. He works all week. It’s not fair for you to take him fishing, you know he’d rather do that than stay and help me.” Mom pouted at Dad. “Can’t you drop in and get it this afternoon so he can show me how to work it tonight?”

“Oh, alright,” Dad gave in, as he always did when Mom wanted something. I guess I was going fishing tomorrow, and showing Mom how to work a digital camera, something I was looking forward to as much as fishing, given Mom’s slow learning curve with anything technical.

“We’ll still get to go fishing, Lorne,” Dad assured me, thinking I was actually looking forward to killing fish and, knowing about Mom’s difficulty with technology, probably thinking better me than him.

After lunch, Dad went back outside and I returned to loll around on the couch, waiting for Mom to finish folding her laundry. She showed up lugging the ironing board which she proceeded to set up and started ironing, back to me again, after turning on the TV. This wasn’t nearly as entertaining as watching her fold laundry, mostly because she didn’t bend over to fetch things from the basket nearly as often. She did stay bent over for longer though, supposedly needing more time to pick out the next thing to iron, and she clearly wasn’t going to finish anytime soon, so I didn’t mind so much.

We didn’t talk. Mom didn’t pick up our earlier conversation and I felt too awkward to renew it, not knowing how to continue it along the lines that it had so abruptly ended. Mom ironed and watched some talk show and I read and watched Mom whenever she retrieved clothes from the basket. I was content.

Dad drifted through about an hour later, announcing that he was off to the office to pick up the camera, kind of pausing, waiting I think, for Mom to say not to worry about it and that Monday was fine. But she didn’t. When he asked me to get off my butt and cut the lawn, she insisted that I was helping her by answering her questions about digital cameras. Dad obviously didn’t want to interject himself into that one, and left.

I was curious about Mom’s little lie about asking me about cameras, but didn’t say anything. Clearly, she wanted to me to stay put, and I hoped it was to continue our earlier conversation. Mom kept ironing and watching TV for several minutes after Dad left.

“So you’re still the low man on the stick with your friends, then?” she suddenly broke the silence, though in a quiet voice barely audible above the TV.

“What?” I asked, not quite sure what she’d said.

“Your friends,” she went on, “they still don’t believe you, still tease you?”

“Yes,” I lied, maintaining my make believe role as a beleagured soul.

“They can’t see that you’re more knowledgeable about women now?”

“They don’t believe I’m getting as much as they are, so why would they pay attention to what I have to say about women?” I replied, hoping to guilt her into another necking session while Dad was out. I was already thinking ahead, wondering how I could get her to lay on me like she had when I was ‘sick’ in bed. I wished I was laying on the couch, but it was now covered in folded clothes. But her next comment made me forget about necking all together.

“So what kind of pictures would you need?” she asked, continuing to iron.

“Pictures?” I was stunned. Mom kept ironing.

“Yeah, pictures. You said you needed proof for these so-called friends of yours.”

“Oh, those.” I was slow to react, caught off guard, my mind reeling.

“I don’t think I could show my boobs,” she went on, “I know you want me to, but I don’t think I can do that.” Mom seemed flustered, her hand moving the iron back and forth faster along the pant leg she was ironing. She couldn’t let me see her tits but she could rub herself to orgasm on me? I guess if things just happened, that was one thing, but purposely doing something was another.

“Well, uh..., well” I stammered, “how about your legs? You have really nice legs, Mom. How about some pictures of your legs?”

“My legs?” Mom looked relieved, and the iron slowed.

“Yeah. But it would have to look like you were showing them to me, not like I just sneaked some pictures when you weren’t looking.”

“Showing you?” Mom asked.

“Yeah Mom,” I was beginning to get into this, “You’d have to look like your were purposely showing off your legs, ... higher, you know ... with your skirt way up.”

“I’ll have to get some new pantyhose then. All of mine are torn,” she mused. “What do you mean by way up? Not all the way?”

“No, not all the way,” I agreed, assuring her that there would be limits. “But you don’t need to get new pantyhose,” I continued, not wanting a delay though I’m sure she’d look great in pantyhose, “it would be better just like you are, with bare legs.” Thinking for a moment, I added, “Or maybe you could wear the old kind of stockings, you know, the kind that have those strap things to hold them up.” I felt myself stirring as a picture of Mom in these popped into my mind.

Mom laughed. “Oh, so you want to see me in stockings and garters do you?” She laughed again, the tension clearly easing. “And will that make up for not seeing my boobs?” Her amusement was clearly evident in her voice.

I laughed as well. “Well, it would certainly be more convincing if you at least showed some cleavage,” I couldn’t help pushing for more while making like I was continuing with our little joke. I had learned that this was a good approach when you were trying to get more than you deserved.

“Maybe we should wait until next week, then,” Mom countered, “I have a bruise on my leg.”

I looked Mom’s legs up and down, closely. I didn’t see any bruise or any other unflattering marks and said so. I didn’t think she was teasing me because I’d been playing it pretty cool, trying hard not to act too eager. I wasn’t sure, but maybe she really was concerned about a blemish showing. I mean, women can be quite concerned about their looks, especially if captured permanently in pictures.

“You aren’t going to let them keep the pictures, are you? You’re just going to let them look at them, right?”

“Absolutely. I won’t let them keep them.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, Mom. I promise.”

“Ok.” She turned directly toward me for the first time, squarely facing me as I sat in Dad’s chair. “Seriously, though, maybe we should wait until this bruise goes away.”

“I don’t see a bruise, Mom.”

“Well, you will if you want me to pull my skirt up for pictures,” she said.

I ignored this. “Where is it?” I asked.

Mom lifted her skirt a couple of inches to maybe halfway up her thigh. Not quite. “There,” she said.

I couldn’t see anything but took my time looking, I think enjoying Mom lifting her skirt for me more than actually looking at her legs. I lifted my hands, palms out and up, with the accompanying ‘I don’t get it’ expression. Mom pulled her skirt up another inch. I shook my head, winning another inch. Still, I shook my head. I was afraid to use my voice in case it cracked and betrayed the calm, not all that interested demeanor I was trying so hard to convey.

“You need your eyes checked.” Mom said, suddenly lifting her left foot and putting it on the seat of the chair beside my leg. “There,” she twisted her knee out a little, opening the inside of her thigh. “You must be going blind,” she added, her voice exasperated.

True enough, there was a small bruise on the lower part of the inside of her thigh, on the really soft fatty part that hung down from the bone. I was enthralled by the opportunity to so closely examine Mom’s leg, my eyes tracing its curvature as it widened from her knee to the bottom of her thigh.

“Are you sure this won’t ruin your pictures?” Mom asked, her fingers pulling around the small bruise to emphasize it, the back of her hand pushing the skirt even higher, allowing me to glimpse the lower part of her panties.

In answer, I framed my hands in a rectangle, like the viewfinder in a camera, and ‘snapped’ a picture. I then looked down at my left palm as if looking at a picture, “Nope, can’t really see it.”

“Joker,” she laughed, tousling my hair with her free hand. “But I think it would show on a real one,” she was suddenly serious again. “Would you have to take pictures this high?”

“At least, Mom. Even higher. It won’t convince those guys if they can’t even see your panties. It’s either tits or panties,” I said.

“Lorne, don’t talk like that. You know I don’t like it.”

“Sorry Mom. But if you’re going to let me take pictures, they have to be convincing.”

Mom tousled my hair again, this time slowly. “I know, dear, I know.”

I took advantage of her soft moment, reaching out with my fingertip to touch the small bruise. “I don’t think this will matter.” I circled the little bruise, round and round, pushing in to make a dent in her leg, pulling the skin away from her panties just inches away. Mom moved her hand out of my way, placing it on top of my head with her other one.

“Are there any more bruises there?” she asked.

“Not that I can see,” I replied after craning my neck around, looking for bruises but really eyeing up her panties.

“Any other marks?” she asked.

“Nope,” I responded a moment later, immensely enjoying the opportunity to eye up the area near the secret garden from which I should have sprang. When she asked if I was sure, I knew she was getting in the mood, especially when she leaned forward, opening her legs even wider. I moved my face very close, thrilling in her faint musky odor.

“Better let me check out your other leg, Mom.”

Mom lowered her foot to the floor and lifted her right foot but I didn’t shift over to make room so she had to raise it up to the arm instead of beside me on the seat. She pulled her skirt up. I pushed her knee out with my left hand and leaned in to look, putting the tip of my right index finger on the bottom of her thigh near her knee. As I examined her, I traced my finger along the bottom of her leg until it was only an inch away from her panties in the little hollow where her leg joined her groin.

“Hmmmm,” I leaned in for a closer look, peering intently at her leg near my finger, “what’s this?”

I moved my finger around in a tiny circle, scratching it back and forth beside the edge of Mom’s panties. “Hmmmm,” I repeated, trying to sound very concerned, continuing to scratch softly at her leg.

“What?” Mom asked, also sounding concerned, leaning down to look herself, her legs widening as she did, but my head was in the way, so close my nose was almost touching her pussy. I could see the hairlines mashed under her cotton panties, could trace the groove running down the center of her mound with my eyes, and struggled not to stick my tongue out to test her enticing cleft. I couldn’t help inhaling through my nose.

“What?” she asked again, a faint worry evident in her voice.

“Nothing,” I said, reluctantly pulling my face back but considering it necessary lest she think there was something there that nobody should see, especially in pictures. “It’s nothing,” I repeated. As she relaxed, pulling back, her legs narrowing, I added, “But you better let me take a look at the backs of your legs, just to be sure.”

“The back? I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Mom,” I took on an insistent tone, “The pictures have to be convincing. If I only have pictures from one angle, they’ll just think I got lucky, but if they can see from different directions, they’ll know you were showing me.”

Mom nodded, agreening with my invented-just-in-time logic. I pressed forward, not wanting her to think too much, “Come on, let’s have a look.”

I pushed her leg down, as much as I didn’t want to, and urged her to turn around with my hands on the sides of her thighs. Slowly, she twisted around until she was facing away from me but then just stood, as if unsure about what to do. I pulled her skirt up. She put her hands down, blocking me from raising her skirt higher.

“Mom, I’m just going to take a quick look to make sure you don’t have any bruises or marks.”

I pushed her skirt higher, her hands yielding before mine, but still there. I kept pushing until the hem of her skirt was above the top of her thighs, exposing the very bottom of her panties. I asked her to hold her skirt there while I looked, using my finger again to trace around her legs. Starting at the back of her leg, I quickly ran it between her legs, below the spot I so dearly wanted to touch, that magic area she had rubbed against me when she’d gotten carried away. How could I get her into that space again?

Unable to come up with a new idea, I tried the same gambit again.

“Hmmmm,” I mumbled, stopping my fingers on the inside of her left thigh, bringing them all together, flat against her leg, and pushed out to widen the gap between her legs. She moved her feet, yielding to accommodate my pressure as I, unnoticed, pushed her skirt higher up her back.

“Lean forward a bit so I can see,” I instructed.

Mom leaned forward, her head twisting around to look back to see what was going on.

“More,” I insisted, pushing out on her leg to widen the gap even more.

Both my wishes came true. Mom was now leaning far enough forward that she put her left hand on her knee to prop herself up. I held her skirt at the very top of her bum, leaving her buttocks exposed, even above the top of her panties which drew a line only half way up her cheeks. I had seen my Mom in a two piece swimsuit before but not this small, and I had never had the opportunity to sit closely behind her, examining her ass. God, this was great!

“Hold your skirt for a minute,” I instructed, looking concerned and leaning in to look closely at her backside.

Mom took hold of her skirt, allowing me to pull my hand away. At the same time, I leaned back, joined my hands together and pretended to take a picture again.

“Snap,” I said, “picture perfect,” and laughed.

“Ohhhh, you brat!” Mom exclaimed, standing up, her skirt falling back into place, turning to faint a slap at me, her face flushed and smiling as I leaned back in the chair to get away. “You brat!” she yelled.

Mom jumped onto the chair, her legs straddling the arms to pin me in place, and pretended to beat on me.

“Mom, mom,” I cried, laughing.

“You’re just making fun of me.”

“No, no,” I cried, my laugher growing fainter. “Really. If you let me take pictures of you like that, it will be awesome. They’ll be blown away.” I raised my hands in picture mode and ‘snapped’ another of her as she slowed her assault on me.

“You look beautiful when you’re mad.” I ‘snapped’ again. “Especially when your face is so flushed.” Snap.

“You got me all worked up,” she said.

I snapped another ‘picture’ of her face, then lowered my hands to ‘snap’ another of her chest. Seeing where my hands were pointing, she slapped them away, but I kept returning them to ‘snap’ more pictures of her chest. She finally gave up, so I continued taking fake pictures of her breasts, and she let me.

“Why are men so consumed with breasts?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know, Mom, but you know they’ll want to see them.”

“I’m not going to show my breasts to those creeps,” she insisted.

I ‘snapped’ another pic. “Just a little cleavage then,” I said and added, when she didn’t seemed moved, “It would be more convincing if you opened your blouse just a little.”

I paused, watching Mom digest what I’d said, seeing her buy the logic.

“Just a button or two,” I prompted, snapping another picture, then dropped my hands to urge her elbows up, letting go to snap another pic. Snap, snap as her fingers reached her blouse. She stared straight ahead, not looking down at me, as her fingers undid the top button of her blouse. I forgot to snap a pretend picture as I stared, my eyes glued to her fingers. Her hands hung in the air in front of her blouse as the button came undone.

I ‘snapped’ another picture. “That’s it, Mom. Like that.” Snap.

Her fingers moved to the next button. Snap. The material moved as her fingers fidgeted. Snap, my index finger moved again, as if pushing a real button.

Mom kind of slumped when the second button came undone, still looking blankly ahead. Her groin fell on mine as her weight shifted, her feet lifting from the floor and her knees dangling over the arms of the chair.

I could feel the heat of her as her panties came into contact with me. I realized then that I was already hard which momentarily panicked me, thinking she would jerk back angrily when she noticed, but she didn’t. She just slumped down, pressing warmly against my hardon, looking blankly at the wall behind us.

Her hands were still held in front of her, poised by the button she’d just undone.

“One more,” I whispered. Hesitantly, Mom’s fingers began their work again, seconds later opening her blouse a little more.

“Just one more, for good measure,” I whispered again.

“Is that what you want?” she asked, still staring ahead.

“It’s what they’ll want.”

A pause and then, falteringly, her fingers moved to the fourth button. A moment later it too was undone. Mom’s hands dropped to her sides, then moved up so that her hands were flat on my shoulders. I ‘snapped’ another picture.

She looked amazing. I had never seen my mother in a low cut dress. This was the most exposed I’d ever seen her chest. Her blouse was undone to the bottom of her breasts. I could see where her bar joined together at the bottom. The upper half of her breasts were bare, the swells straining to be free of the cups.

I was getting harder as I looked, and I couldn’t help straining up against the heat of her. She didn’t flinch away. She didn’t seem to even be aware at that my cock was pulsing against her.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice dry and cracking, not bothering to continue the charade that it was just for my ‘friends’.

“Then have a good look,” she said, her gaze shifting from the wall to my face. “Your father will be home soon.”

“Push up for the picture,” I whispered, holding my hands up in fake camera mode.

Her blouse parted as she did, exposing the inside of her breasts. I reveled in her beauty. I’m sure I told her she was beautiful, or awesome, or something like that, or both. I know she smiled at what I said, looking pleased. I know I did say I would never show real pictures of her if she let me see all of her. “Maybe without the camera, one day,” she answered.

“Why?” I asked, finding my voice again, “Don’t you like the way I take pictures?” I smiled, faking some snaps again.

“Actually, it was fun,” she admitted. Then, looking intently at me, “Did you like taking them, or were you just trying to get a look?”

She kind of caught me off guard. “No,” I said truthfully, for once. “I think I liked taking the pictures more. It was exciting.”

“I thought so, too.” Mom smiled, her face suddenly softening. “Would you like to practice kissing a little before Dad gets home?”

I answered by stretching up to meet her lips. Mom lowered herself to help and I pushed up more when I felt her weight come down, pressing the warmth of her panties firmly against me. She slipped her hands under my arms and pulled her self down even harder and slipped her tongue into my mouth when I thrust my hips up to meet her. We were kissing hard, panting, and rocking against each other when we heard the car door slam. We hadn’t heard Dad pull into the driveway.

We almost fell into the ironing board as we leapt awkwardly to our feet. I had just started upstairs when Dad came through the door. Looking back, I could see Mom running the cold iron back and forth on the same pants. Though she was turned partly away, I knew her blouse must still be undone almost to her skirt.

Thank god, Dad turned to me with the camera in hand. I asked him a couple of dumb questions, keeping his attention on me as Mom came to her senses and quickly did up her blouse. Dad suddenly turned, said hi to mom, and wheeled through the kitchen and out the door into the backyard. I stood there, real camera in hand, looking at Mom. We both had stunned looks on our faces, then slowly broke out into grins, and then nervous laughter.

I walked down the two steps to the floor and raised the camera to my face, slowly stepping toward Mom, still smiling. Click. Another step. Click.

Mom raised her hands high above her head, cocking her hips and pushing her breasts out. Amazingly, she moved her hands to her blouse again. Two buttons were loosened before I clicked again. “More,” I whispered, repeating our game.

“More?” she teased.

Click, I answered.

“More?” she whispered huskily.

Click. Another button. Click.

“More,” I gasped.

Another button. Click. She parted her blouse again. We’d reached our previous game point in less than a minute. The return trip is always faster they say. Click.

Then another button. Click. Her blouse was open all the way to her skirt. Click. She moved her fingers to her bra.

“Put the camera down.”

“Put it down,” she repeated.

I set the camera down on the floor. Her fingers moved and her hands pulled away. Nothing looked different. Then I noticed. Her bra was undone. I could see her skin as it pulled apart. I raised my hands into a mock camera. Snap.

Mom cocked her hip out to one side, her waist bending and her shoulder lowering. The blouse opened a little more. Snap. She straightened in mock disdain, her back arching, thrusting her chest up and forward, and the blouse away to the side. The gap between her bra opened wider, showing the crease under her sweet globes, but it still covered most of her breasts. I stepped close to her, looking down at her chest.