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More than anticipated is how to summarize my Wednesday morning wakeup. To describe with a cliché, I could set my watch by using the sound of Dad leaving. Waiting for my sister to start her car so that I could get out of bed, my bedroom door then fully opened, and I was treated with the charming sight of my mom wearing a short, white slip. In full view, from what I determined as a firm fit, I could easily detect that the slip was not covering a bra and there were no panty lines. Mom had made sure that the bottom hem of the slip stopped where the brown hair of her V began. Even in photos I had seen in my buddies’ magazines, I had never seen a pussy mound protrude like that of my mom’s. She was not overweight then, and still not as I write this years later.
Surprised, I immediately asked the whereabouts of my sister. “Gone. Early,” my mom quickly answered. Behind her in the hall sat one of the dinette chairs that we had used for the previous evening’s meal. She reached around, positioned the chair, and sat legs crossed the way most women do when sitting.
“Out of bed and come over here.” Still wearing my tighty-whities, the bulging of my cock gave the appearance of me wearing a jock cup. I took one step and my mom told me to stop.
“Off. Take’em off. I want to see,” she insisted as if we were engaging in some type of formal inspection. In retrospect, I am sure that Mom did closely examine, but this was an examination that would end with satisfying consequences.
Without hesitating, as soon as the elastic waistband cleared the head of my cock, Mom uncrossed her legs and motioned with a curled finger for me to come closer. Two steps, maybe a yard or meter away from her, and she held her hand up for me to stop like we were playing some version of Simon Says. This was a game in which the rules were set by Mom, and to this point I excitedly concurred with her bahis firmaları version of the game. With her same hand raised at eye level, now half-closed in a fist-like fashion, she made a slow, male masturbation movement.
“I’m not ready to fuck, yet,” she whispered. Just show Mommy what you do in the mornings and watch me while you’re doing it.” Mom rarely used profanity or any words with sexual connotation, and the only time I had ever heard her say the word “fuck” was when she once ran our pesky dog out of her kitchen. Her statement about not being ready to fuck was understood but not without mild disappointment, yet this was still beginning to be fun. Standing there, looking directly at my mom’s lovely body, I reached for my already-hard cock, softly gripped it, and began stroking.
“A little slower please,” she hissed while looking directly at my cock. At the same time, she parted her legs just enough to slide her right hand between them, and her fingers quickly covered her still protruding, hair-covered pussy. Sitting in the dinette chair, her short slip was sufficiently raised for me to see her naked hips and her rubbing motion between a set of beautiful legs. Mom’s left hand slowly brushed her thinly covered nipples, one at a time, teasing them, causing little dimples to permeate her areolae.
Not diverting her eyes, she mouthed a distinct “Oh, fuck,” then plainly said, “So hard. Your cockhead. Stroke it for Mommy. This is Mommy’s first time to watch up close.” In a letter that Mom wrote to me a few months later, I learned that she had asked my dad to let her watch him, but he appeared, in her words, to be insulted by her “voyeuristic desires.”
Jacking-off with my right hand, intermittently feeling or simply touching my knob with the left, the excitement in her eyes matched the feeling that I had in my balls. Easily evident were Mom’s legs kaçak iddaa farther apart, enough for me to get my first look at her well-proportioned pussy lips and the tips of her two fingers glistening with her own lubricant.
I wanted this special morning to last, but my cock had a different want. My next words were “I’m going to,” and before I could finish pronouncing the next one-syllable word, Mom knew I was ready and interjected, “Cum for me now Baby. Beat it. Cum for Mommy now.”
Before the last string of cum erupted, my male cream had already formed several little puddles on the hardwood floor between us. Her legs spread about as far as they could spread in a dinette chair, Mom’s orgasm was everything but silent. Blushed, her head slightly bent forward, legs now squeezed together, Mom raised her left arm and told me to help her to the bathroom. Still hard, I took every advantage of the short trip down the hall by feeling her medium size breasts, firm nipples, and pressing my cock close to her naked legs and slip-covered butt. Mom did not protest. Instead, she reached behind my neck, pulled me closer, and we exchanged deep kisses before she closed the bathroom door behind her.
I knew that Mom needed no help to the bathroom, and she knew what I would do and where my hands would be while “helping” her.
Because Mom’s appearance at my bedroom door had happened earlier that morning, we had a short time left to face each other before I had to leave for work. Inexplicably, my start time at work had changed from 6:30 AM to 7:30. When I entered the kitchen, Mom was sitting at the table sipping her coffee. “Coffee’s ready. Get a cup,” she said, and I poured my usual black coffee.
“Your room all cleaned? The floor?” she grinned. With my cup raised to my lips, I slowly nodded in the affirmative before taking a sip of hot coffee. Looking over her cup kaçak bahis as she drank, “I liked this morning. You?” she questioned before I was halfway in the dinette chair that she had used in the hallway.
“Mom, I loved. I loved it all. I love you. Touching you and feeling you in the hall, especially. Loved it. “Before last week, I asked,” how long had you been watching me in the mornings?” A week ago, I could not even imagine exchanging words like this with my mom. Now, this morning, we had just had a sexually intimate affair, and I wanted her to know that I liked it. Our conversation seemed natural.
Even in later years, I never referred to her by given name. Out of respect, it was always “Mom.” I wanted her to know that I respected her and loved her no matter what.
When she did not answer the question about watching me, I got up and moved to her side of the table. She looked up at me, set her cup in the saucer, and I bent over and kissed her lips. She instantly kissed back, darting her tongue toward mine. My cock immediately reacted, and Mom, as if by instinct, reached her left hand toward my crouch, cupping the hardness through my jeans, squeezing gently. She had already predicted my reaction to her tongue.
“This tomorrow. I love you too, but we need to talk,” she said, while squeezing the crotch of my jeans.
Like some of Mom’s other statements, those two words, “This tomorrow,” were ambiguous. I turned, and before opening the back door to go out to my truck, she confessed that she had been watching, not every morning, but most mornings for the past three months.
To this point I had experienced full sexual intercourse only twice with the same girl. The first event happened the evening after my high school’s Senior Prom night. I forfeited my virginity while parked in my truck. At that time, of course, it was referred to as “going all the way.” The second time was in my bedroom with the same girl when Dad worked a double shift, my sister was visiting friends in Indiana, and my mom was an hour away helping her sister move into a new apartment, or so I thought.
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