I wonder f she’d let me? I wonder if that’s what she wants.
My mother says, “I wonder what Jonathon next door will do when he sees me parading around with my boobs out?” Her chin juts towards where my hand is busy tugging away. “Probably the same as you, eh, Sean?”
I’m getting into it by now. The weirdness has gone for the time being. I’m close to insane with my need. I can deal with the aftermath later because, in the moment, right now, all that matters is chugging my dick. I’m burning with lust and egging myself on towards slipping a hand between my mother’s thighs. I’m close to doing it, another second or two and she’d be hot against my palm. I’m yanking and grunting when she sits on the edge of the bed. And, thwarted in my plan to rub my mother’s pussy, all I can do is shunt sideways a few inches, my fist jerking my length.
I moan, “Oh God,” and use both my hands on my cock.
My mother sees it and gasps. “This is so bloody dirty,” she whines. “It’s so naughty.” Grinning wickedly, she looks at me and breathes, “I know I shouldn’t watch you like this … I know it’s the wrong thing to do … And I don’t know what came over me, Sean…
“But it’s really quite thrilling seeing you do it.”
Pre-cum pours out of me. My bell-end is slippery with gloop, my shaft sucking and squelching while I fuck both my hands. I’m grunting in time with each thrust, jaws clenched, teeth bared. If she wants it dirty…
“God, look at you,” she squeaks, eyes huge, jaw dangling. “Dear God, Sean…”
“Can I touch you?” I gasp, already reaching. Which is the wrong thing to do.
My mother moves fast. Like my hand was on fire, she rolls away. She’s up and off the bed before my fingers get near.
I groan in frustration as my mother stands there and chides me. “No, Sean, you shouldn’t,” she says.
It seems an odd place to draw the line to me. I can think dirty thoughts while she’s naked? I can wank my cock while she watches? It’s acceptable for her to sit there and watch — but I can’t touch her boobs?
“Please,” I grimace. “Just let me touch you…”
And when I go to get up, I’m suddenly alone.
###
My ardour deflates. When it does I’m immediately struck by arrows of guilt and remorse.
I can’t leave it like this. I have to make amends and pull on some loose tracky bottoms, then go in search.
It doesn’t take long. My mother is just along the corridor, in her bedroom, the door ajar.
I stand at the threshold and look in. I’m torn — do I enter or not? What am I going to say? What’s she going to say?
She’s on the bed, sitting elegantly with her legs crossed, arms straight down at her sides, palms against the quilt. It’s light in there courtesy of the big window, the white quilt cover as pristine a new fall of snow. She’s in there because she finds the room peaceful. It’s her sanctuary, her yoga den with pale blue walls and blonde wood furniture. She’s staring at the Thai figurine on top of the dresser, its features serene. Which is nothing like the way I feel.
Her positioning, my mother’s straight spine, means her chest is thrust forward, breasts sitting high.