“And you’re the perfect mom,” I replied, meaning it.
“Oh, now you’re being silly,” she said, as I squirted lotion on her lower back.
“I’m serious, Mom,” I said. “I couldn’t ask for a better mom.”
“Your father sure didn’t think so,” she sighed, Dad having left just for his much younger, skinnier, dumber, blonde, fake-breasted, secretary.
“He’s an idiot,” I said. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know… inside and out.”
“I couldn’t ask for a sweeter son,” she said, as she lifted herself up a bit, enough so I could see her entire left breast from the side.
I froze, suddenly unable to continue rubbing her back with my hands, or even to take part in our conversation.
She asked, looking at me looking at her, “Distracted again?”
I should have broken my drooling stare at mom’s massive tit, but I couldn’t as I struggled to say something… anything… and what came out was no more than a bunch of incoherent babble which I won’t attempt to spell for you. It would have lots of vowels and not many consonants.
“Are you okay?” she asked, lifting her body up a bit more so she could turn towards me. Now I saw her nipple poking out… so hard and inviting.
Finally I admitted, “Mom, I can see your breast.”
She laughed, but didn’t move at all to hide it, “You used to love these things. I mean you refused the bottle far longer than your brothers.”
I tried to joke, “Maybe that’s why I’m a breast guy.”
“And a leg guy,” she added, actually moving slightly to show me even more of the first breast and some of the other.
“Pardon?” I questioned.
“I notice you staring at my legs and feet when I walk around the house wearing nylons with my shoes off,”
she revealed.
I felt my face burn with embarrassment as she continued, “It’s okay, honey. I’ve always been flattered by the attention you give me.”
“You have?” I asked, shocked by the conversation.
“Sure,” she nodded, “who wouldn’t be? Especially since your father left and I began to feel really insecure about myself as a woman.”
“You’re way hotter than she is,” I complimented, before adding, trying to be suave, “especially when you’re wearing nylons.”
“You like nylons too?” she asked, already knowing but wanting to hear me say so.
Deciding to keep things going and keep giving hints, “That’s likely your fault too.”
“My fault?” she questioned, her nipple still hanging out and about and daring me to do something about it.
“Well, you’re the woman I see the most, and you’re always wearing them,” I explained. I then added, feeling like I should just let it all out, “And I especially have a thing for nylon-covered feet.”
“Well, like father like son,” she replied.
“Really?” I asked.
“Your father used to order me to wear them every day from morning to bedtime,” she revealed.
“Order?” I asked, even though I knew what she meant… I wanted to see how much she would tell me.
“I’m saying too much,” she said, her face suddenly changing expression as she lay back down.
“Mom,” I objected, rubbing right around her ass… taking a risk and moving my lotion-covered hands to her legs then rubbing them up her thigh. “You can tell me anything.”