My Mum was restless. She'd changed her position on our sofa at least four times now while being totally engrossed in her paperback novel. She'd started off conventionally, sitting upright with the book on her lap and her legs together to support it, but then she'd taken a couple of cushions, adjusted her skirt beneath her and lain back with the book held high above her head. That hadn't lasted long either though, and her arms probably ached, so she'd scooted round and lay on her side. That position proved unsuitable as well, so now she'd adopted a strange, and to me very provocative pose where she lay on her front, her head hanging over the arm of the sofa with her heavy breasts wedged up against it, and the book lying on the floor.
This might not have been her favorite position, but I have to say that from my vantage point it was certainly one of mine, so I appreciated it while I could. I was sprawled in an armchair opposite, and the view certainly had a lot going for it. The only way it might have been better would have had to involve the loosening of certain items of clothing. Since I was sure nothing of the kind was likely to happen in the foreseeable future, I resigned myself to taking in the firm round swell of her bum underneath the thin cotton skirt -- so thin that I could have traced the outline of her panties beneath it. I could see they were small and trimmed with lace edging, and through the delicate mesh of the skirt's material and by screwing my eyes up a little bit, I could even see that they were a snowy white.
It crossed my mind that I should get out more. What was I doing taking perverse pleasures from eying up my own Mum?
To turn a page, she had to bring her nearside arm forward, resulting in a flash of the side of her (matching!) white bra and a lifting of the bottom hem of her blouse to show a strip of lily-white flesh at her waist.
Ah, this was better than the TV any day -- an unprogrammed reality show where you never knew what was going to happen next. What did happen next was that our lovable cat Toots decided to take an interest in her reading as well and promptly placed himself like a huge fat bookmark between her pages. Mum shooed him away and, miffed, he jumped up onto the back of the sofa. From there he eyed Mum's bum just as intently as I was doing but, unlike me, couldn't resist such temptation and sprang down onto her lovely buoyant cheeks which wobbled under the impact.
Mum was used to his crazy antics and hardly moved, other than to clench her cheeks alternately in an effort to unbalance him. But our Toots is never easily unbalanced, and he rode her arse like a true surfer. Mum for her part gave up and allowed him to finally nestle there in the soft valley of her backside. I was so envious of the way he was able to freely rest his head into the niche offered between her bum cheeks and the top of her slightly open long legs.
The show didn't end there though. Anyone who's ever had a cat will know that it has to arrange its sleeping pad just so, and this is engineered by picking at the material it is lying on with its front claws. Not deep enough to scratch, but certainly deep enough to bunch up the material beneath it. In this way Toots bunched up Mum's skirt at the back and in no time at all I was being offered a great upskirt view of Mum's white pantie-covered bum entirely on display, her legs splayed enough that I thought I could just make out a few wisps of itinerant pussy hairs projecting from around the edges of her panties as they swept down between her cheeks. It was only when Toots didn't stop there and decided to rearrange her panties as well that Mum finally lost patience with him and swung up and round to give him a flick with the book and shoo him away. The book swung out of her grasp and landed with a thump onto the carpet in front of me.
"Get off me, you little pervert..!" she shouted at the spooked cat as he leapt off her and up over the back of the sofa. Mum was momentarily distracted and lifted one leg to regain a sitting position and to adjust her skirt. Oh vision. This allowed me a virtual paparazzi pic of her legs when they were open at their widest juncture. I might later take this memory of her panties clinging to the sides of her pussy lips up with me to my bedroom where I would then use it extensively in one of my increasingly frequent sordid Mum-fantasies.
So, all in all, this was turning out to be one of our regular lazy weekends where we'd both fallen into the habit of doing as little as possible. After the three years since Dad had died I no longer felt I had to be at Mum's side on a regular basis to support her, but I had chosen to study from home instead of my first intention which had been to move away and attend Uni at Manchester or London. Now I was here because I could help out with the rent and also because I felt so comfortable in her presence. She was my Mum after all, but she was also my friend, which might go some way towards explaining the confusion I felt as a young horny fellow in the presence of a lovely, well-rounded woman who could effortlessly turn many heads in the street.
I bent over and picked up her book, glancing at the title, 'Picnic at Hanging Rock'. Pleasant memories immediately came rushing back to me of those careless days out by the river, climbing trees, swinging on ropes, blankets spread out on the grass with all kinds of yummy delicacies with which you were allowed to make a beast of yourself. It was clear what we should do today.
"We should do that." I said, indicating the book.
Mum smiled, looking at the title. "It might take at least one taxi and a couple of buses to get there. It's in Australia."
"Oh. No, but the picnic thing. You remember we used to go, a whole bunch of us, with Auntie Jill and Fiona?"
I called them 'Aunties', but they were really neighbors from where we used to live. They'd had five kids between them and we'd all used to pile onto the local bus, loaded down with bags and hampers, and ridden out into the countryside and set ourselves up where there'd been woods, a bend in the river, long stretches of pasture and, strategically for my Dad and 'Uncles', a village pub not half a mile away.
"Mmm, what I seem to remember from those jaunts was having to dunk your head into the river to wash it when you somehow managed to get it layered in strawberry jam. I got soaked. I felt like one of those poor women you see on the television having to do their washing in the Ganges..."
"C'mon Mum, I'm all grown-up now. I promise I'll keep the lid on this time..."
I gave her one of my best cutest grins and she seemed to look me over as though assessing whether I really was all grown-up now. I must have passed the test because she sighed, "Well I think we could both do with a bit of fresh air instead of being cooped up in here all day long...so, okay, why not?"
Having come to a decision, we both began scurrying around like hamsters getting the gear together for our picnic. If we weren't going to cook, we were going to gorge ourselves on other things -- anything which could be spread or heaped between two slices of bread, so Mum dumped onto the table all kinds of items we might take with us, undecided about the strawberry jam until I took it from her hands with a laugh and added it to the growing pile. In no time at all we'd assembled everything we figured we'd need and I'd stuffed most of it into my old hiking rucksack while Mum took the rest in her own smaller backpack.
Of course, she felt she had to change clothes for our epic journey which she did by changing into a light pink summer dress with an additional cardigan should it turn a bit chilly. This was England after all, which meant that even though the weather might be fine in the morning there was no guarantee against snow in the afternoon. Still, within an hour of deciding, we'd already hopped onto a bus and were on our way out into the countryside.
Sitting there beside me on the bus, I could see that Mum was really looking forward to our day out. She seemed to be beaming with expectation, and her laughing face in profile made her look a lot younger. Not that she was old by any means; after all, she'd had me straight after school. No, she looked comfortable in her own body. Which meant I had to take a pic of her so I took out my phone and quickly clicked a shot off before the moment was lost.
"No!" she laughed and put up a hand to shield herself from the phone. "Put that thing away, Jamie, we're going for a picnic which means back to nature. No mod-cons. At all." She paused, then nudged my shoulder. "Show me."
I did. The picture was actually quite artistic in spite of me having no time to frame and focus it. The sun reflected off the sunglasses she'd shoved up onto her head, her auburn hair shone, her eyes glistened and her regular teeth gleamed healthily in an unself-conscious laugh.
"Okay, you can keep that one."
We chatted about where we were going and the things that had inevitably gone wrong on previous outings, which in their way had only made the days out more happily memorable, and we were both laughing as we got off the bus outside one of the local villages.
Oh. It seemed modern life had intervened in the meantime. Where there had been a stile to gain access to a ramblers' footpath, the low wall was now stretched over with barbed wire. Foundations for houses, cement mixers and builders' rubble were all too evident on the other side, as well as a sign warning trespassers of a fate worse than death should they encroach on the property. We stood there indecisively.
"You don't got to worry about that sign any," piped up a voice from behind us. "That comp'ny caused a right stink when they started buildin'. They's the ones doin' the trespassin'." This wrinkled old lady stood there defiantly, daring us to commit a crime. "It's down in t' church ledger since olden times -- that there's a public footpath an' they've no rights to go blockin' it off. So you can go through if you like. No one'll stop you. They reckon they're gonna leave a space through t' property anyway once it's done, but they gotta put up a sign 'cause of t' insurance comp'ny."
And with that she ambled away.
Mum and I smiled at each other.
"Shall we?"
"We shall...not sure about this barbed wire, though."
