Dear Lord, my family tree was a telephone pole compared to anyone else’s weeping willow!
With a touch of guilt and confusion, I did what any teenage boy would do in that situation: I jacked off. It didn’t take long and the output was epic in comparison to previous sessions. I cleaned myself up and, as you might expect, I soon drifted off to sleep. And dreamed of doing things with my mother that I could only infer from literature and film.
The next morning I woke to the smell of breakfast being cooked downstairs. Saturday morning breakfasts were a regular event in our home and I would often spend weeks looking forward to them. That morning, however, I was faced with a fine mix of anticipation and dread. I had no doubts that the food would taste delicious because it always did, but I knew that my mother would be down there, waiting for me. I wanted to see her and didn’t want to at the same time. The problem was that, during all my years growing up, mother would dress rather scantily while she made breakfast. I’d never really noticed it before because, well, she was my mother and I hadn’t thought to view her as a sexual being before. But now that the cards were on the table, as it were, every little thing was suddenly amplified. I would go downstairs and not see my mother, but a very fuckable woman in her mid-thirties wearing a thin chemise, no bra and lacy panties, all wrapped up in an apron. I’d have to decide if I was drooling over a plate of eggs, sausage, biscuits and bacon or if I was salivating over my mother’s hot body.
My stomach helped me make my decision. I begrudgingly got out of bed, donned a pair of boxer shorts and trudged downstairs to what would most certainly be an awkward breakfast. I entered the kitchen and, as had been the case for every Saturday that I could remember, my mother was at the stove, her back to me, draining the grease off the bacon. Her apron was open in the back and I stopped cold in the doorway. As I stood there to either admire the view or work up the courage to announce my presence (I couldn’t decide which), Mother moved to her right a bit, pushed herself up on the countertop and reached up to the cabinet above her. She was trying to pull down the grease jar that she kept there, but she was far too short. She attempted to get a little higher by swinging her right leg onto the counter, but she was still only able to swing the cabinet door open. She tried valiantly to touch the slick glass of the jar, which made her wobble with the strain. My eyes drifted upwards from her taut left calf and up until my gaze fell upon what may arguably be the most perfect pair of butt cheeks known to any man on the planet, spread slightly and barely revealing the mound of her womanhood from behind. The globes of my mother’s ass were round and supple and firm, without a trace of age or scarring. A man could stare at that butt for days and simply admire it the way he would a Rembrandt, longing to hold it in his hands while-
When Mother started to move with a sudden jerk, I yanked myself out of La-La Land and focused on what was happening. The grease jar was tilted precariously on the edge, threatening to topple over, and Mother couldn’t get a decent grip on it. She was just barely keeping it from falling, along with herself, but she wouldn’t be able to hold that position for long. Without even thinking, I rushed up behind her and grabbed the jar. In doing so, I pressed my body right up against hers from behind, startling her for a fraction of a second before she realized that I had come to her rescue.
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