“It would be nice.”
“We have not done that since you were little.”
“Yeah, I guess … I don’t know.”
He did know, though. It stopped with puberty, with the changes he was experiencing, his growing anxiety about females. And then his father left, and she became distant for a time, and there were no more massages. They were forgotten, until now. Now, that is what he wanted, and so he asked.
She sat up and leaned over him, her breasts sagging down, almost reaching his bare chest. She pressed her thumbs to his forehead then pulled them across in opposite directions along the scalp line, finishing with a little swirl around each temple. It was awkward, though, from this position. To massage a face, one needs the correct angle. She considered her options. She could make him scooch down a little letting her sit in the place of his pillow, his head resting in her lap as she usually did when he was little. But she reasoned that she did not need to disturb him, possibly increasing his tension. Instead, she carefully swung her left leg across him, then sat down, straddling his thighs. He glimpsed her pubis as she made the transit and noted that she did not wear panties. His tension increased. His manhood responded excitedly.
Once in the correct position, she again placed her thumbs against the middle of his forehead, at the scalp line, and started over. She slowly dragged her thumbs across his forehead to his temples, circling each firmly, then back to his forehead, just a little further below the scalp, and made the transit again, and again, slowly, very deliberately, working her way down to his cheeks, then his jaw.
He lay still, not making a sound. The tension? Well, that was another matter. He was young, barely eighteen. He was preoccupied by all things sexual. The simple fact of an attractive woman, pantyless in her negligée, straddling his lower body, was having a predictable effect. He was not troubled by her age or the fact that she was his mother. In fact, he felt that he nearly had her where he wanted her, and his hopes were ascending rapidly. He struggled to be patient, yet he knew he had to take the lead in this daring little dance.
Subtly, he worked the covers down from his waist. She was so intent on her work, she did not notice. But time was fleeting, and a crisis rapidly approached. She was massaging his chin now, nearly done. If he was to get his way, he was running out of time. He needed to take action, but he knew he had to go slowly, not alarm her, to draw her in, get her to a point where she could not turn back.
He very gently placed his hands on her hips. She felt his touch. She was not altogether surprised at the thrill it gave her and the effects she felt in her body. Her nipples swelled. Her stomach fluttered. Her vagina moistened. She chose not to dwell on those physical responses to his touch. She was enjoying this little game he seemed to be playing with her, the little indulgences, the excitement of tempting fate.
It had been a very long time since her husband had left. A long, lonely time. She swallowed and slowed the pace of the massage, keeping the passing time at bay as best she could, maintaining the moment, the lovely, intimate moment that slowly unfolded for them.