Down the hallway, in the living room, we would establish 3 piles: stuff to trash; stuff to donate; and stuff to keep. The keeper pile would ultimately be returned to the newly organized shelves. As the trash and donation piles grew, we’d bag things up in preparation for their final destination.
We got down to business just about noon. The work went smoothly early on, and I have to say, it wasn’t so bad. It was actually kind of fun. Mom’s bedroom was just a few feet up the hall from the closet, and that served as our base of operations. In her bedroom, we had a couple tall glasses of lemonade. We had Mom’s radio pumping out some classic rock. And most importantly, in her bedroom, we had air conditioning! After all, it was late July in New York – and that means 2 things… heat and humidity.
Of course, we both knew that, and had dressed accordingly. I wore some light-weight grey cotton gym-shorts. No underwear. I knew my balls would be sweaty enough as-is. On top, I wore a simple white tank-top undershirt – a ‘wife beater,’ if you will. Mom too wore a more feminine white tank top – or camisole, with delicate ‘spaghetti’ straps. The cami’s thin fabric did little to mask the pink lace bra she wore underneath – apparently a matching set with her thong. Nor did the sheer lace of her bra, do much to hide the dark, prominent nipples that topped her perky B-cup breasts. Damn, my Mom did look fine!
She kept up a steady stream of chatter as she pulled items out, handing things to me and telling me which pile to place them in. Most of the top layers consisted of her old clothes. And to her credit, Mom was almost ruthlessly determined to make progress. And I was happy to watch her as she’d bend forward presenting her marvelously shaped little ass to my eager vision. I found that as she bent and flexed, the already thin fabric of her yoga pants would stretch and her golden skin would become more visible beneath – revealing the perfect spheres of her butt. I was mesmerized by that pink lace thong. My eyes following the thin strand of fabric as it disappeared into the mysterious paradise between her butt cheeks. And I promised myself that I would find that thong after my Mom changed clothes – and I would inhale her sweet musky scent.
A couple hours passed, and we’d progressed about two-thirds of the way toward the back of the closet. But that New York humidity was causing us to work up quite a sweat. My Mom is of Italian descent. And she has the wonderful olive skin of her ancestors – kissed by the Mediterranean sun. Now, in that midsummer afternoon, her luminous skin was aglow with a fine sheen of perspiration. Her dark brown hair was pulled up high in a pony tail, but a few loose strands of damp hair clung to her shapely neck. And her white camisole had became translucent across her back. All I could think about was how much I wanted to lick the curve of her neck; to taste the sweat from the small of her back; to follow the contours of her body with my tongue.
3.
“Whew!” she exclaimed, “I’m sweating like a pig in here! Why don’t we take a little A/C break?”
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