Chapter 1

“The best things happen when you least expect them,” my mother quoted.

Unsuspectingly, it seemed an ordinary evening to a run of the mill day. Earlier in the afternoon, after my college classes finished I returned home. Now seated on my mother’s bed in the master bedroom to our comfortable three-bedroom home, I listened to her tell me about her workday where she worked in the accounting department of a regional grocery chain.

Our usual routine had become, after she got home from work she decompressed by recounting her day to me, using me as a sounding board. Although our discussion usually began in the living room or kitchen, it seemed to always end in the same fashion. While continuing our conversation she would head off toward her bedroom with me dutifully following behind her, and from behind enjoying the view.

Having done this dance for so long I no longer thought it odd my mother, whom I loved, was in love with and lusted for, would partially undress in front of me. As is life, this daily routine slowly evolved into an everyday custom. While she changed out of her work attire before she headed off into her master bathroom to shower, and afterwards relax for the night, she would continue to tell me about her day. It became commonplace for my mother to discuss her day with me all while she casually, nonchalantly, stripped down to her bra and panties or pantyhose and then end our conversation by going to take a shower.

This evening, I paid just enough attention to hold up my end of the conversation as she told me about how a sale for one product was not producing the results expected, a concern about the rising prices for fresh vegetables, and if it could be offset somewhere else. Really exciting stuff, huh? We discussed these topics while I sat behind her on the edge of her well-made queen-size bed. She was fastidious about this. I admired how nice my mother dressed and enjoyed getting the opportunity to watch her shed her clothes.

Tonight, first to come off was her dark charcoal blazer with a petite white lace trim along the collar. Beneath, she wore a silvery off-white satin blouse, which softly shimmered from the light as she moved. Without her intending it to be, to watch her was seductive. She pulled her blouse from her skirt and began to unbutton it. Sitting on her bed about five feet behind her, as she unbuttoned her blouse I saw hints of the black bra she wore underneath.

Blithely, my mother removed her blouse as she spoke to me about different sales options they might try. Do you think I paid attention to what she said?

No, I was too busy taking in the sight, in the mirror, of her tremendous breasts. Could my mother be completely unaware how enraptured I was by the sight of her magnificent Thirty-Four Double-D boobs? I wondered this many times, as she tormented my inflamed cock with her seemingly oblivious undressing before me. Nightly, she teasingly tortured me by tempting me with the sight of her in only panties or pantyhose and a bra that valiantly attempted to constrain her beautiful bosom.

This night, my cock throbbed from seeing her in a sexy black bra that was attractive yet revealed little. While fashionable, her bra was one of those full-support bras layered with rows of small black clamshell lace, each row building upon the former row. The apex in the middle of the two large cups was a smooth black triangle with a quilted pink bow embroidered onto it. My eagle eye vision noted the middle of her bra hovered about half an’ inch from her breastbone. Her magnificent globes were too proud to be fully held back, defiantly bulging from their container. I noted how her bra had wide shoulder pads at the top, and squeezed into her body around her sides. In the back was a wide strap with four rows of hooks. I dreamed, Oh, if I could be that bra.

“Dalton, can you unzip me?”

Entranced as I was, it took me a moment to realize she asked me to unzip the matching charcoal skirt to her blazer. I walked up behind her and had to quickly, subtly shift my raging boner. I was pitching a tent that pushed out from my loose gym shorts. I couldn't have her bumping up against that, could I?

Nervously, I reached for the buttoned flap that covered the top of her skirt's zipper. This was because the flap rested on the top of the charming upswell of her rump. The sultry skin of her exposed lower back was right there. Fittingly, the button fought me. I placed my other hand on Mom's hip, ultra-conscience of how perfect her hip fit within my hold. Tugging, I got the stubborn button to release but not before I got to watch her hips sensuously sway beneath my tugs.

The zipper was more accommodating; it simply unzipped its few inches without any protest. V'ing open about four inches at the top, it revealed the top of her semi-sheer black pantyhose. Opened, her skirt seemed to defy gravity as it remained in place. This was because of the sweet swell of her hips. Still, I stared at the feat.

“Would you?” she asked. From previous experience, I knew she meant for me push down her skirt. She seemed blithely naïve to my rampant, raging lust. I placed my other hand on her hip, and in an easy motion her skirt slipped down, gliding over the smooth nylon material. She squatted down and stepped out of her skirt, still wearing her tall black pumps. Lying when she claimed to be 5-foot-5, my mother always wore heels. Tonight, her heels were tall, thin spikes that seemed at least four inches.

She stood back up and I marveled at the sight she presented me.

“Mom, how come you never seem to date?” I curiously wondered as I reached around my mother’s waist, and loosely hugged her. Although this was an unusual thing for me, or for us, to do, it felt more like a natural response to my question than a conscience decision to hold her. As I loosely hugged her, her eyes dropped to my hands.

“Sweetie, who wants an old hag like me?” she derisively replied.

“Don't say that Mom, you're beautiful.” I earnestly corrected.

“That's really sweet, but I know the truth.” She countered.

Pulling her closer to me, I questioned, “Really?”

With my head over her shoulder and looking at her reflection in the mirror, I told her, “Look at yourself, Mom.”

“Look at yourself, Jóhanna,” I ordered. Perhaps the surprise of me using her first name, forcefully and pronouncing it correctly got her to comply. Although my mother’s name is Johanna, from her Slavic and Nordic origins it’s supposed to be pronounced Yo-Hahn-Nah. However in one of those European to American crossovers the shortened nickname is, Jo. As a result, most mispronounce her full name as Jo-Anne-Nah. Grudgingly Jóhanna, Yo-Hahn-Nah, lifted her eyes to see herself in the mirror.

“You have this mane of beautiful black hair, that's still all natural. You don't have to do anything and it looks great. Women would kill to have your hair.”

It was true, although in her forties, Mom still didn't have a grey hair. She was delighted by this and proud of her hair in general. She crowed over her friends how it was only she who did not dye her hair. She snickered and they envied her; they hoped for the day to come. This day, she wore it loose and lazily parted in the middle. From there, her raven-black locks hung straight down, framing her face before cascading down to the middle of her back. I could smell its familiar scent of the lavender and lilac scented shampoo she used. From her faithful use of this particular brand for years, when I smelled its scent in a supermarket it reminded me of her and would create longings in my pants.

“And tell me you don't have the most beautiful eyes.” Making eye contact with her in the mirror, I continued, “You know it’s true. You know you can paralyze someone with a look.”

Mom knowingly smirked. This was because she had piercing ice blue eyes. They were so pale a blue that in bright sunlight they sometimes seem almost white. With her dark hair and fair skin, her eyes stood out. They were startling and an attention grabber. When she wanted to, she could use those eyes to her advantage. Even after seeing her do it to others, I still fell prey to That Look.

“You have beautiful, clear skin…” I watched myself as I reached up and with just the barest tips of my fore and middle fingertips stroked her cheek. In an odd way, I felt as if I was in two places at once. There was the one where I physically existed; the other was an almost detached view where I watched the scene occur. While I was a principle actor in the scene, there was also a dissociative sense of watching myself act.

“…and such soft cheeks.” Placing my thumb and forefinger on her jaw, I squeezed my fingers together, tenderly running them along her jaw to meet on her chin. I always loved how she had a petite chin that seemed separate from her jaw, as if attached later. Her soft U-shaped line deliciously defined her chin to create this dynamic effect.

My penis ached I was so damn hard. I was so friggin’ hard it felt as if the stiffness of my cock threatened to tear through its thin skin.

“Yeah, but what about the rest?” she inquired. For reasons beyond me, my mother was hypercritical of herself. Her weight hovered between 135 and 150 pounds. When it was below 140, she was happy. If it crept toward 150, she became neurotic. She worked out at an all-women’s gym that supposedly celebrated a woman’s curves. Yet Mom thought she should be a twig. I couldn’t understand it.

“Mom, lift your chin.” When she did, I asked, “Do you see a turkey neck?” and she laughed. In the past, we maliciously laughed at the...