Then she would unzip her skirt. I never quite knew where to look at that moment. She would swing and wiggle her hips to try and get the skirt to drop her down. This caused her delightfully saucy butt and her tits to jiggle simultaneously, so I was always trying my best to soak in both of them.
Once down to her underwear, she would sit in front of the dresser and brush her hair. Occasionally, she would apply some cream to her legs and arms. All the while she would keep up our conversation. I used this time to study her. Her flawless complexion. Her lustrous brown hair. The pretty face with her cute little button nose. Her generous breasts which I yearned to touch and her cleavage where I wished to bury my face.
And while she would be brushing her hair, Mom would always be looking in the mirror, right back at me. Inevitably, once I was done checking her out, I would move my eyes up and our eyes would meet. I would blush a deep crimson at having been caught, but I never would break eye contact with her. I thought she was gorgeous, and while I was embarrassed, I wasn’t ashamed at being caught looking at her; I did not want to apologize. And she never did say anything. She would smile, and I would find myself smiling too.
She would proceed to her closet, where she would take out one of her gowns. Putting it one, she would turn away from me, and once hidden from my prying eyes, she would reach behind her back and unhook her bra, discarding it on the bed. Then, she would pull the gown close and turn towards me with a bright smile. Ruffling my hair, she would tell me that she was going to get started on dinner and to meet her downstairs in fifteen.
I would use this time to scurry to my room and masturbate.
When I joined her downstairs for dinner, we would continue talking. Me about school or my teachers. She about her work or her friends. The new gaming console I wanted to buy. The new book she wants to read.
After dinner, I would help her clear away the dishes. She would thank me and we would walk upstairs. Then once we reached the top of the stairs, she would draw me into a warm hug and gently kiss me goodnight on the cheek. As she whispered in my ear how much she loved me, I would revel in the comforting warmth and softness of her breasts, separated from me by only her thin gown. I would gaze at her longingly and lovingly, and then she’d go into her bedroom and I would retreat into mine, proceeding to furiously masturbate again to my thoughts and fantasies of Mom. I never felt any guilt; I never felt like I was doing anything wrong in thinking of my Mother in such a way. Yes, I did know that most sons don’t think of their mothers like this, but I loved her, and I knew she loved me. Maybe not in the way I did, but it was something.
And to quote an oft repeated phrase, “how can love be wrong?”
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Some things change as time passes. I grew taller and my body filled out and got some definition. I didn’t play any sport, but jogging in the morning and an occasional trip to the gym kept me in pretty good shape. Once finished with school, I enrolled for part-time classes at the local college and started working part-time at a small financial advisory firm. The hours were easy but the work was challenging, yet I didn’t find it too tough. I guess I got the gift of numbers from Mom.