Chapter 2

After that magical afternoon —fashion show, dinner and a movie— nothing happened for weeks. I would have thought Mother would have been keen to continue the fashion show she had seemed to enjoy so much. And I found myself wishing to see the sparkle in her eyes that had been so evident that evening. But, it was not to be. Mother returned to shuffling around the house in drab clothing. That is, when she came downstairs. I mostly had our large home to myself. Father stayed in his room, and Mother ventured out almost only to make a meal for Dad, usually asking me to take it to him if I was around.

I tried to engage her, talking about new dresses I had seen women wearing, mentioning lingerie I’d seen in store windows in the hopes that it would remind her of her offer for a more intimate display. All to no avail.

What had happened? I had half expected Mom to start showing off her wardrobe almost before I had finished breakfast the next morning. But she didn’t even come downstairs until after lunch, and then only to make some sandwiches for Dad and herself. When she came down for dinner, I suggested renting some chick flicks to watch at home, but she didn’t bite.

What could I do to trigger the reappearance of that confident, playful, sexy woman that had emerged so suddenly while reading on the couch? I racked my brain. What had I done that afternoon? Did it have anything to do with me at all? What could she have been thinking? What had she been reading that day? I couldn’t remember.

Finally, it came to me. All I had done was pay attention to her whenever she was around. I hadn’t been obvious —indeed, I was trying to be covert, you can’t just ogle your Mom— but I knew she had noticed: by a smile here, an unnecessary pose there, lingering downstairs while I was home.

So why was she suddenly avoiding me? She let me touch her freely but acted as if nothing was going on. On the other hand, she was definitely aware when she set limits and laid down rules. Was she truly depressed, perhaps remorseful over that evening, or did she just like to play hard to get?

And then a further revelation, of sorts, struck me. Mother liked attention, but she was sophisticated. She had been a woman of influence and men had to be careful around her. Perhaps her actions had nothing to do with me, per se, but were steeped in the games she played when she and Dad were king and queen. And I had inadvertently triggered dormant behavior patterns by subtly admiring her charms. Many men leer at a woman’s obvious sexual equipment, tits and ass, and lots of women respond to this. But my Mother had become aware of my furtive observations and she had captured me by simply dipping her foot, as if she was fly fishing.

How could I induce her to wield that rod again and reel in her catch? That evening hadn’t been sudden. It had come after weeks of my covert attention and shy sexual awareness of her. And she was likely aware of that even sooner than I. Those actions needed to be patiently repeated. Whenever she was around, I should compliment her in some way, but refrain from explicit sexual allusions or reminders of that evening. And if she didn’t show, I’d find an excuse to visit her room.

I put my plan into action. Forgetting my desire to circumvent her rules, I was simply desperate to play within them once more. Over the next few days, whenever I saw Mom, I would say something simple, like, ‘Oh, hi Mom. Isn’t it a great morning?’ instead of asking about Dad. I used any excuse to get her to interact with me. I asked her if I could do any chores around the house or the yard, pick up anything from the store, stuff like that. I asked if she’d join me for breakfast, or to sit outside with a coffee in the morning sun.

It took over a week, but she slowly started coming downstairs more often, and staying around longer. Then, one morning she appeared wearing the same plaid housecoat she’d worn on that fateful afternoon. After fixing her coffee she turned to leave, but I convinced her to stay while I made some pancakes, one of the few things I was could cook (other than stew).

While I busied myself about the kitchen, Mother sipped her coffee, and read one of the fashion magazines I had been leaving on the table for the past two weeks. Although tense inside, I tried to appear relaxed. Still, I couldn’t help glancing at her while I cooked and she read. She had turned her chair away from the table to make room for her legs, which she had crossed, right leg over left, exposing the underside of her thigh. As she flipped through the magazine, she hummed quietly. After finishing the magazine, she picked another from the stack without glancing up to monitor my progress. Her foot began to dip, the slipper dangling from her toes. Slowly, up and down, her calf muscles tensing prettily, and the underside of her thigh, well ... even better.

Her slipper fell to the floor with a SLAP! Startled, I froze. I was facing directly at her, away from the stove and the pancakes which were starting to burn. I was caught, again. Her foot had also frozen. It was like time stood still. But she didn’t look at me. A brief smile played over her lips, she flipped the page, flexed her toes, and restarted her bare foot on its magnetic dance, up and down, up and down.

I turned back to the stove to save what was left of the dying pancakes. The game had started, I was sure of it. But I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t in control. I finished cooking the pancakes, glancing often, though more furtively, at her legs. She seemed to smile faintly each time I looked.

I fetched plates and cutlery. She turned out a little more to make room for me to set the table, never looking away from her magazine. I stole a glance down her housecoat while I fussed about getting the knives and forks properly aligned beside her plate. Before bringing the pancakes, I brought the coffee pot to refill her cup. As I poured, I looked again down her front which seemed to be a little more accommodating to my gaze than just a moment before. Her leg brushed against mine. She continued dipping her foot up and down, lightly grazing her calf against the the front of my leg, just above the knee but she didn’t look up. My cock hardened. I stopped pouring her coffee just as it was about to overflow, but I didn’t move away. I stayed and she kept brushing against my leg.

Thirty or forty seconds must have gone by. She brushing, me hardening. Then she said, “Oh, look Jay. This is a cute outfit, isn’t it?” She placed the magazine on the table, swinging her leg away from me, pointing to a picture of a woman in a conservative wool dress.

I bent to look at the picture, my leg making contact with the outside of her thigh. I couldn’t help myself, I pressed against it. “Oh, yeah, Mom. That is a nice one.”

“Mmmm,” she replied.

“Don’t you have one like that?” I ventured, forgetting my caution about reminders.

“Yes, I do. But not quite the same.” She eyed the dress critically. “I’m not sure which I like better.”

“Why don’t you try it on after breakfast, Mom, and see?” I was really going out on a limb. If I lost the past couple of weeks of painstaking effort, I’d strangle myself with my bare hands.

“That’s an excellent idea, Jay,” she answered, tossing the magazine on the table. “But now I’m ready for some of those famous pancakes.”

We ate our breakfast, Mother chatting away as if reborn. When she finished, she stood and left the kitchen. There was no mention of trying on the dress. She reappeared in the kitchen doorway just as I started clearing the table.

“Jay, be a dear and make some of those for your father, will you?”

“Yes, Mom,” I replied, not turning to look at her.

“And can you make some more coffee?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Thanks, dear. Oh, and be sure to bring that magazine with you when you come up so we can compare the dresses, alright sweetheart?”

“Oh, yeah, Mom. I’ll bring it right up.”

“Don’t rush, sweetie. Have a chat with your father so you can let me know how he’s been doing lately. Then bring the coffee while it’s still hot.” Turning to leave, she made an odd comment, “You can’t rush a woman when she’s getting dressed, sweetie.”

I put on a fresh pot of coffee and rushed some pancakes up to my father. He took the tray, but wasn’t any more inclined to talk than I, so I left him to it and rushed downstairs to get the coffee. As I was coming up the stairs, I realized that I couldn’t rush in. She had said to take my time, so I sat down at the top of the stairs, and let my boner grow as my thoughts seeped under the closed door of my Mom’s room.

Was she naked? What do you wear under a wool dress? Not just little panties, I thought disappointedly, it would be too itchy. The wool dress in the picture had a high neckline and came down almost to the knee. Christ! I’d forgotten the magazine. I leapt up to fetch it and just about broke my cock. Limping back up the stairs with the magazine I made my way to her room. Knocking quietly, I was suddenly aware that my Dad was in the next room and I was about to ogle his wife.

I opened the door, slowly, calling out, “Mom, mom?”

Poking my head in, she was nowhere in sight. Then I heard her voice before she sauntered into the room from the adjoining bathroom, “Gosh, Jay, I’m not quite ready. I just realized I haven’t shaved my legs.”

They had looked fine an hour ago but she paused to display them, lifting the hem of her wool dress a couple of inches, and turning her legs back and forth for me to see. They seemed to gleam with some kind of lotion now. She looked up, “Oh, well, you’re here now,” she said, turning, “Do me up, please.”

The zipper on the back of her dress was completely undone, but I wasn’t treated to her bare back. She had some kind of slip on under the dress. I grasped the zipper, my hands shaking nonetheless. After a bit of fumbling, I zipped her up.

“You didn’t bring the coffee.”

Oh, Jeez, I’d left the coffee at the top of the stairs. “I’ll go get it.”

“Nevermind, nevermind,” she said, walking over to her bed. Raising her foot up to the edge of the mattress, she said, “Do you think I should put on nylons? I used to be able to get away without them but my legs are getting older now, just like me.”

“Oh, no, Mom. Don’t put on nylons. Your legs look just great. They’re all shiny and really nice to look at.”

“You really think so?” She turned her raised leg about, then switched, lifting the left one up, and pulling her dress half way up her thigh as she did so. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, Mom,” I replied, walking close to her so I could see between her exposed thighs. “Absolutely.”

“Oh, ok, then,” she said, dropping her dress just as I reached her side. She walked away about five feet, turned, cocked her hip, and said, “Well, what do you think?”

“Fantastic,” I blurted out, “Really great!”

“No, I mean, which dress do you think works better?” nodding at the magazine I’d dropped on the chair by her door.

“Oh.” I quickly retrieved the magazine and messed about trying to find the picture. Mom grabbed it, and quickly found the picture.

“No, I think my green one is closer,” she said, walking away into her closet. Leaving the door open with her back to me, she began rustling through the dresses hanging there. Over her shoulder, she said, “Come and unzip me.”

I didn’t stumble but I certainly reached her back in record time. I pulled the zipper down, and stood there while she rummaged about, my hand still holding the zipper, resting in the small of her back.

“Here it is.” She shrugged her shoulders, the dress fell away to her waist. Holding the new one up in front of her, she said, “Push my dress off, Jay.”

I grasped the dress, sliding it over her hips and down her sides, taking the opportunity to slide my hand all the way down her legs, although I didn’t need to. As I stood, she stepped into the new dress, pulling it up over her hips. “Help me,” she said.

I helped her slip her arms through the sleeves, pulled it tight over her shoulders, and zipped it up. She turned and walked back into her room, with me right behind her. A quick glance at the mirror showed that this dress was a little more revealing in the front, exposing her slip. “Unzip me,” she commanded, and I obeyed.

She efficiently dropped the dress without my help and then proceeded to take her slip off, pushing the straps over her shoulders and then the slip down, exposing her unblemished back and a lacy bra. “Push it the rest of the way,” she commanded.

The slip clung to her flesh, requiring firmer pressure to push it past her hips and down her legs. I dragged my fingertips as far around her front as I could reasonably get away with. Fortunately, Mother paid no notice to my indiscretion, or the fact that my hands molded unnecessarily around her legs all the way down to her ankles. She stepped back into the dress as I lifted my eyes to the back of her panties, discerning the crack of her ass just as the green wool hid it from my view.

When I started to zip her up again, she shrugged, “No, it’s too itchy.”

With a wiggle and a shrug, she let the dress fall to the floor. In just her bra and panties, she walked over to her dresser, as casually as if she was going to get some butter from the fridge. Her body was a magnet to my eyes, each motion exquisite. I gawked as she fished through the drawers, her lovely pear-shaped ass cheeks spilling out around the tantalizing blue panties. To think that only a moment ago I wouldn’t have believed my cock could get harder.

She searched her drawers for a long time. Then, without looking, she said, “Run downstairs and get our CD while I find another slip.”

I didn’t move. I heard her voice but failed to register her meaning right away.

“Jay. Run along now.”

I slowly walked sideways and then backed up to the door, not wanting to leave this vision. Once through the door, I bolted down the stairs and frantically tried to find the CD we had danced to weeks ago, without success. Finally, I pressed eject and there it was. I rushed back upstairs and burst into Mom’s bedroom.

Mom turned, laughing at my eager entry, “I didn’t know you were so interested in fashion, Jay. Be a dear and close the door.”

She was now wearing the next wool dress. I could only hope that one would also come off soon. She pirouetted in the dress. Then, stopping to face me, she pulled her feet together and stood up on her toes, arching her back and thrusting her breasts up toward me.

“What do you think? Do you like it?”

The dress hugged her figure and was sufficiently low in front to hint at the perfect tits hidden beneath. What could I say?

“I love it, on you, Mom.”

“Oh, you’re just saying that,” she countered.

“No, Mom. It really looks good on you. Especially when you move. It totally shows your figure, but it’s still classy.”

Mom smiled, a big, appreciative smile. I was definitely learning things here that would help me later in life.

“I think you’ll like the last one best. Something tells me you will.”

She laughed, the hearty, throaty sound of a woman having fun. What a feeling, to be able to make a woman feel like that. She spun around and disappeared into her closet. I followed. As I approached the door, the dress was already falling to the floor.

“No, Jay. You can’t watch me put this one on. Wait over by the door.”

I complied. A moment later she reappeared, wearing a green wool dress, not nearly as daring as the navy blue number she’d worn weeks earlier, but very appealing in its own way. She was right, I liked this one best of the ones she’d worn this morning. Low in front, it buttoned all the way down to the hem at mid thigh. The green wool perfectly offset her eyes, which positively sparkled, perhaps in response to her very appreciative audience.