I follow my mother out of the kitchen. She’s grabbed the bottle and stalked away, the F-bomb a real cause for concern. I know there’s no going back for her now. If he’s done the dirty on my mother, he’s history.
Just ask my dad.
I know I should feel bad for her, and I do, but there’s also a chuckle of delight at the back of my mind. Inside my head a sing-song voice celebrates: It’s over; he cheated; she dumped him.
When I get to the living room she’s already shrugging off her blouse. My mother is muttering away, threats coming through teeth clenched with her rage.
My cock thickens despite my concern when I see my mother’s wobbling breasts, her nipples and areolae exposed, the weighty orbs cantilevered over a quarter-cup bra.
It’s the same effect as the tan lines. I’m hard and fantasising as she unzips the skirt and gives a little shimmy to get it down past her hips.
It’s devastating seeing her like that. She’s down to her underwear but still in the shoes. I look at her and feel a visceral pull, gulping down on the desire to go maul at her tits. It’s all I can do to stop myself hauling my hard-on out into view as lust surges inside me.
“Mum,” I gurgle. “Wuh-what are you doing?”
Wild-eyed and rabid with rage she shrieks, “I hate wearing clothes!
“I’m sorry,” she adds with a gasp. “I didn’t mean to yell at you like that.”
“Duh-do you have to strip in front of me?” I ask, stammering because the view is so sweet and I want her to stop before I do something stupidly reckless.
But, also, I don’t want her to stop. I want to stare at her nudity and crank at my cock ’til it spits.
I’d timed my outburst perfectly — or not, depending on your point of view. My mother ceases her vehement undressing to regard me square on, fists on her hips.
She’s still wearing the bra and the knickers and shoes, her eyes flashing fire. “It’s hardly a striptease,” my mother says.
“It is to me,” I groan in reply as my eyes flick to her underwear packed tight with her pussy.
Her eyebrows go up to her hairline. “What do you mean?” she asks, frowning in puzzlement.
It all gets too much and I slump into a chair. “Jesus, Mum!” I explode, waving the can in the air. “It’s difficult enough for me seeing you nude all the time.
“But look at you now,” I add with a jut of my chin. “Don’t you have any idea at all what you’re doing to me? You’re driving me mental.”
I blow out a sigh, cheeks like balloons. “Your body, Mum…
“Your boobs and your arse and your legs…
“Please,” I gasp. “Can’t you take off those shoes?”
She blinks and looks at her feet. “My shoes?”
It’s obvious she doesn’t have a clue so I groan and swig beer, a dribble of it running down my chin.
“They’re so sexy,” I tell her after wiping a hand over my chin. “I mean, just look at yourself. I don’t know anyone else whose mother thinks it’s acceptable to parade around with her knockers hanging out.”
“But I’ve always gone naked…”
I’m back on my feet and dumping the can on the coffee table before I start waving my arms.
“And it never used to bother me,” I shoot back, beginning to get strident.