Chapter 7: Beyond the Pale

That night, Mom went upstairs and came back wearing pajamas. Man style pajamas with a cotton shirt top and bottoms. She sat on the couch for a while, reading, then, without a word she dropped her book and walked out of the room to sit in front of the piano. She started playing, practicing one of the pieces we’d been working on. I listened for a few minutes, then got up to join her.

“Maybe you should get changed too, son,” Dad said as I passed in front of him.

“Changed?” I asked.

Dad made his hand into a claw and pulled it up in front of his crotch, then pointed a me.

“Oh,” I said, blushing. “Right.”

“I’ll be right down, Mom,” I called, rushing up the stairs. “I’m just going to get changed.”

I put on my pajamas and a jock strap, just in case Dad wanted to check, then headed down to join Mom. I straddled her hips and snuggled up close, no longer shy about pressing my lump into her backside. Mom didn’t break her stride but continued playing. I placed my hands on her hips. I wanted to slide between her legs but realized - I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about this when I first saw her in pajamas - that there was no skirt to hide under.

Oh well. I slid my hands under Mom’s shirt and snuggled them underneath her breasts. There was nothing wrong about playing with these. Before long, I was squeezing and playing with Mom’s nipples, flicking them about with my fingers, pulling and tugging. But now I had seen them and put my mouth on one and I wanted more. I wanted to suck them, and I whispered as much in Mom’s ear.

“Shhhhh,” Mom whispered, playing on.

“I want to do more,” I complained. “Why didn’t you wear a skirt?”

“To keep you from doing more,” Mom whispered. Then she laughed. “Do you have your little chastity belt on?” she tittered.

“Very funny,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry, honey. I couldn’t resist teasing you.”

“It’s Ok.”

I dropped my hands down to Mom’s waist and began toying with her navel, circling my fingertip around and around, then slowly poking it in and out. The suggestion wasn’t lost on Mom.

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

I kept playing with Mom’s navel.

“Do you think Grandma let Dad touch her?”

Mom missed a beat.

“I’ll bet she did. I bet Dad felt her up all the time.”

Mom was stiff. I suspected I was onto something and I pursued it.

“Let’s look up some old pictures. I bet she had nice ones. That’s probably why he married you, because you have such nice tits.”

Mom was so rigid I don’t know how she managed to keep playing.

“I’ll bet Grandma let Dad suck them whenever he wanted, whenever Grandpa wasn’t around.” I paused for effect, then said, “Or do you think she let him suck them even when Grandpa was in the house?”

“Stop talking such trash.”

But Mom was breathing faster. I was getting to her.

“Yeah, I bet she did. I bet she even let Dad touch her, down there.”

I trailed my fingertip down from Mom’s navel to the elastic band of her pajama bottoms.

“I bet that’s where she liked it best.”

I slipped my finger, just the tip, under the elastic.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I bet she let Dad get behind her and slip his hand under her pants,” I husked in Mom’s ear.

Mom went even more rigid and I pushed my hand under the waistband of her pajamas, stretching my finger down until I contacted pubic hair.

“He touched her pussy,” I whispered, swishing my fingertip across the top of Mom’s bush, feeling her react to me now and not just my voice and the pictures I was planting in her head.

I rubbed all around Mom’s clit and then inserted my fingertip inside the little hood covering it to trigger her clit. Mom expelled the air in her lungs in a long whoosh and her hips initiated a series of tiny humps. I pushed my other hand under her waistband, below my flicking finger, scraping back and forth across her rubbery lips, opening them, then wormed my fingers inside.

She was hot and very wet, and she had stopped playing the piano.

“Play,” I hissed, pushing my fingers in and out.

“I can’t.”

“Play,” I repeated, jamming my fingers in and out, circling and flicking her clit. “Play,” I whispered again.

Mom only grunted in reply. I turned to look in the living room, into the bookcase, looking for Dad’s reflection, but the cabinet door was open and I couldn’t see anything at all. Desperately, I rubbed my finger up and down in Mom’s soaked pussy, then side to side and in and out again. I circled her clit faster, then put the pad of my finger right on it and started shaking. Within seconds, Mom’s hand flailed about and she went rigid, mouth open, hips jerking, legs vibrating. Suddenly, she relaxed completely, slumping in my arms.

I pulled my hands out of Mom’s pants. Just in time, because Dad sat up and came into the hallway between the two rooms.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks, Dad.”

He bustled off to the kitchen. A minute later I joined him, leaving Mom to recover from what I guessed was the best orgasm she’d had in a long, long time. It was just fingers, but her son had played the piano since he was little, under her tutelage. Dexterity was his second name.