Movement I: Allegretto Grazioso Dolce

My mother had suffered a bad day at work. She'd come home tense, upset with her bitchy and incompetent co-workers, and was even now working at the kitchen table on the household budget, sighing every now and then as she tapped morosely at the calculator.

She was wearing a red, satin negligee; I'd seen it before, and when the light was just right you could barely see through it to the dark smudges of her nipples and aureoles. I suppose I should explain. My mother is a wonderfully attractive woman; she has amazing rowan eyes, a bright and engaging smile, and a glorious figure that belies her true age of 36. I'd noticed that the first time she'd worn that strappy little number- in combination with a new and flattering hair colour that echoed its fiery colours, a little over a week ago. I'd been trying to sneak peeks at her ever since, "accidentally" walking into her bedroom in search of this or that, or barging into the bathroom after she showered, all to no avail.

As she dropped her pen and idly scratched her foot, I wondered if I might not be able to turn the situation to my advantage. When I was young- well, younger in any case- my mother had often asked me to give her back rubs. As I'd grown older and went through my difficult teenage years, that practice had gradually stopped, as in typical adolescent style I had no desire to be in the same room as my mother, let alone touching her. Now, however, I cursed my short-sightedness; but, I suppose, I didn't appreciate her beauty then as I do now. So I would have squandered it still.

I padded over to her, causing her to start in surprise as my hands came down on her shoulders. Then I began to massage her, thumbs rubbing at the corded muscles of her shoulders. She let out a little laugh, relaxing back into the chair. "God, baby, you frightened me. It's been so long since you did this for me, and I've really missed it. Today was a nightmare..."

As she spoke, I tuned out, offering the appropriate noises at the appropriate times. In truth, I was more interested in peering down the front of her negligee; her eyes were closed now as she sank into stillness beneath my hands, and I could see that the light- as I had hoped- was just right. My mother has the most unbelievable bust, full and natural with dark brown aureoles that are three, or perhaps even four, inches across. My eyes lingering there, I idly wondered how much of that dark flesh would pucker into her nipples when they stood up, aroused or responding to other stimuli. From where I stood, I could see the soft slopes of her breasts as they rose and fell in time with her slow breath.

As I worked, I "accidentally" brushed the straps aside, hoping one might fall away from her shoulder and take the top of the shift with it, exposing one perfect, milky mound. I moved slowly, not wanting her to realise what I was doing, but eventually I was able to get the top to slide down, the barest hint of a brown circle showing above the red fabric. I bit my lip, trying to find a way to proceed; I wanted to see more of her, but without taking away the seeming innocence of the situation.

As I salivated over my mother's amazing body, I blew lightly across her bust, hoping to catch the negligee up in my breath, push it just that little bit lower. As the chill air moved across her, the barely-hidden nipple hardened, and she shivered as goose bumps formed on her arms. And, in an instant seared forevermore into my mind, the slight instinctive twitch conspired with the slight poke of her nipple to make the neckline finally fall away.

It was erotic beyond belief. My own mother's breast! The last time I'd seen it was nearly twenty years ago now, when she was just my age, and I savoured the sight, knowing that it would provide fuel for a thousand incestuous flights of fancy. And as her nipple hardened in response to the cold, I saw at last how large they could become, standing proud and firm like the rubber at the end of an old-style pencil.

As I continued to "innocently" massage my mother's shoulders, I began to grow hard. Lolling back over the top of the chair, she was too close, and as I surged, unrestrained in my boxers (for I, too, was dressed for bed), the tip slipped out of my fly and batted gently against the back of her head. Had she noticed? I began to panic, and my hands convulsed, the stronger grip causing her eyes to fly open.

"Oh, baby," she breathed, looking at me upside-down. "That feels so good. Can you do mommy's back?" I nodded, swivelling my hips to bring my erection back inside my pants. She glanced down, blushed as she realised she'd been exposed under my gaze, and covered her breast up again before leaning forward. I did my best to work at her, but with the back of the chair in my way, there was not a lot I could do. The obvious solution would be to have her sit facing the wrong way on the chair, leaning into its back as I massaged her, but I wanted... more.

And could you blame me? She might be my mother, but she could definitely be a model! So instead, I asked if we might go to her bedroom, where I could use her moisturising cream as lotion. She nodded, slowly, and told me that would be great. Hiding my erection from her whilst I followed her up stairs was a Herculean task, and as I watched her hips sway on the stairs above me, I caught sight of her panties. I could tell they were ivory, but that was all, and I resolved to see them fully.

I hovered carefully as she lay down on her bed, moving her pillows aside and placing her forehead on her crossed forearms. I decided to put my two-pronged plan of attack into motion. "Mom," I began uncertainly, "this moisturiser, it's kind of greasy. Do you want to fold your nightie down or something?" She lay there for a moment, considering it.

Sounding drowsy, she said "Or something," and rose to her knees, keeping her back towards me. She shimmied her hips, took the negligee off, and tossed it belligerently to one side. Then she lay back down, stretching lithely on her bed, all long limbed and graceful. Time, then, for the next part of my dastardly, deviant plan.

"One other thing," I squeaked, trying to sound casual. "Is it OK if I sit down on you? Just so I can get to your back better, of course."

I crossed my fingers. She sighed again, deeply, and told me that I could, so long as I was careful not to "crush your old mom." As I reached for the moisturiser she kept on her nightstand, I blurted "You're not old, mom. You're gorgeous."

She snorted a little at that. "Yeah, right. An old nag like me, compared to the girls your age? I've seen them, all blonde and-"

I cut in, there. "Vapid. They're airheads, mom. Besides," I said as I poured a dollop of moisturiser into my palm, rubbing it against my clean hand to heat the cold cream before applying it to her, "this new hair cut and colour really suits you. Makes you look ... a bit like Christina Hendricks," I finished. We were both incorrigible geeks, and I knew she'd remember the curvaceous, flirty YoSafBridge from Firefly, one of our favourite shows.

She chuckled a little at that. "I don't think she's got anything to fear from me, son. But it's nice of you to say so, any way." I shook my head, wishing she could see how pretty she really was, and eased down onto her, straddling her hips and starting to work at the small of her back. As my hands moved at her, rubbing where I could find knots of tension beneath her radiant skin, tracing the curve and hollow of her spine, I calculated the angles.

It wasn't good, I could tell; my penis had again worked its way out the fly of my boxers, and was even now tenting my grey tank top. I wished I'd worn something a little more appropriate, but how could I have known I would be in this position? But re-positioning my rebellious rod would take time, would mean removing my hands from my softly sighing mother, and to hell with that!

What I was afraid of most right now was that I'd lean too far forward, that my cock would brush against the skin of her back, dispelling this wondrous moment. And I couldn't bear the thought of that. Eventually, though, there was no more muscle I could soothe with my hands, so I lathered up with moisturiser again and placed my hands on her sides, careful not to tickle her as I slid my hands up her soft curves. She moaned slightly at that, and I pushed a little further than I should have, trailing my fingers down to where her breasts, crushed beneath her body, protruded slightly.

I made sure I moved back and away from them each time, barely running my fingers over her magnificent breasts. I wanted for her to turn over, for her to let me see them, touch them, but as I groped further and further at them, she shifted beneath me. I held my breath, but she merely muttered "Oh, yes, baby. Right there, right there." So I allowed my fingers to explore that silky skin a little more, pressing slightly against the sides of her breasts. After a few moments of that, I thought there could be no doubt as to my attentions, but my mother was either enjoying what I was doing or was pretending not to notice me feeling her up. I cared little as to which it might be, so long as I was able to touch those heavenly mounds.

But all good things must come to an end, and with a deep sigh, she asked me to stop. My heart sank, but she merely asked me if I would like to massage her feet and legs. Trying not to give myself away through over-eagerness, I cleared my throat and rose off her, moving back to stare at her upturned ass.

The panties were perfectly suited to her, ivory French-cut briefs that only served to accentuate the perfectly-formed globes of her buttocks. I'm a breast man, not a butt man, though with that said as far as I could tell it was as amazing as the rest of her. I hoped that over the course of my massage I might be able to knead that creamy skin, knowing that it would be white, untouched by the sun's ravages.

I wondered if I might be able to use her request to my advantage again. Pretending to be thinking aloud, I said "Um, mom? Do you think you could ... you know ... err ... so I can get to your legs better?"

She turned to look at me, and I was glad that for that moment I was hunched over, the baggy tank top's shapeless form concealing my erection completely. "Open my legs, you mean?" I nodded. She shrugged. "Sure. I don't want to make it hard for you."

Hard for you. Choking back laughter at her unwitting double entendre, I settled down between her slightly-parted legs, working my way up their delicate lengths. I switched from one leg to the other, feet, than calves, than the beginning of her thighs. I swallowed. "Just let me know if I'm getting a bit too ... you know ... friendly, mom." Or don't, I thought desperately. She just nodded, sighing contentedly.

So I began to work my way up her creamy, well-muscled thighs, marvelling at how soft they were beneath my somewhat greasy hands. To me delight, the material of the panties proved slightly gauzy; not enough to see between her legs, but enough to make out the dark shadow of my mother's outer lips. As I moved my hands up, I "accidentally" brushed against the crotch of her panties, trying to get her turned on, hoping that she might soak through the panties the way water would a white t-shirt, giving me a veiled view of her sex. But it was not to be.

"Honey," she breathed, that feels very good. But," she continued, my heart falling like a stone, "would you mind maybe going a little bit ... higher? Take care of my glutes?" Biting my lip, I did, careful not to touch against the seams of her delicate underwear. And as I worked at her, so close to her upturned, peach-like buttocks, I tried to push just a little further.