I was five and Mom was only twenty one when Dad was killed in an industrial accident. He was ten years older than she was, and although I don't know what his job was Mom says he was pretty high up in the pecking order, on a damn good salary most guys could only dream of. His firm was found guilty of gross negligence. Mom was smart enough to get a good but not too greedy lawyer, who drew up a chart showing Dad's progress up the work ladder, and taking into account inflation, how much he could have earned from then until I turned eighteen, we received a hefty payout. When I say 'not too greedy' I mean he padded his calculations enough to make sure his fat fee increased the payout to cover it. He also coached Mom, so when she had to give evidence, the cheap clothes he told her to wear and dress me in tugged at the heartstrings of the jury, so they actually awarded more that the lawyer asked for.
Although I was too young at the time to know which way was up, looking back I'm pretty sure that lawyer had the hots for Mom, because he even persuaded his own financial experts to act for her for next to nothing. I guess it paid off for them in the long run though, because she was so grateful for their advice that after she paid out the mortgage she did what she saw as the right thing to do, and engaged them to invest the rest of the money, so we received a generous income. Another thing that makes me so sure his interest was more than professional, was he rang and visited her regularly, supposedly to check she was doing OK. When I was about eight I woke up one night needing to pee, and I saw them coming out of Mom's room. Mom was wrapped in a bed sheet and wasn't looking too happy, but if his grin had been any wider the top of his head would have fallen off. That was the last we heard of him, so he must have got whatever it was he wanted.
The only thing I really remember about Dad was the way he squashed me between him and Mom when he hugged her, which was a lot, and always made me feel warm and safe. When the huge bear of a man was holding us like that there was no way the bogeymen could get us. Then one day he didn't come home from work, and Mom was crying and crying and crying all day every day for ages, which made me cry too. I didn't know what going to Heaven meant, but that was what she said he'd done, even though he didn't want to, but I figured it must be a lousy place if Dad going there made my Mom cry all the time. For the next thirteen years she was Mom and Dad to me, and she made sure the hugs never stopped, so even though it wasn't long before I couldn't really remember him any more, I never really forgot him, if that makes any sense.
Saturday night dinners were always special to Mom. Sort of semi formal. She would take extra care preparing the meal, and then we sat down to eat dressed in our nicest clothes. Not always our best clothes, but never our ordinary knockabout stuff. Years later in my early teens I asked her about it, and she said her first date with Dad had been at a fancy restaurant, and they had gone there every Saturday. It was after one of these dinners that he got her pregnant, and with the reluctant permission of her parents they married on her sixteenth birthday. As her waistline expanded they had found it more convenient to recreate the occasion at home, and three months after the wedding they became first time parents. After Dad was killed, Mom kept up the tradition, as a sort of tribute to him and the love they had for each other.
When I was in my teens I started bringing my friends home after school, and we would sit at the big dining table to do our homework, while Mom prepared dinner. As we grew older, they seemed to be spending as much time looking at her as they spent on their books. One day one of them told her how nice she looked, and although she blushed a little she took the compliment with good grace. At the time I didn't think anything of it because she was my Mom, and all boys think their Mom's are beautiful, even when they are nothing special to look at. After that first time the guys began commenting more frequently, although always with respect. Even when a couple of them told me they thought she was sexy, there was always respect in their tones, not like when we talked about the girls we used to ogle. I guess it was like all things though. When you are told something often enough you start to wonder if it might be true, and I started looking at Mom differently, trying to see her as they did.
Coming up to my eighteenth birthday I realised I wasn't getting anywhere at school, so I quit and got a part time job stacking shelves in a supermarket. It wasn't the most glamorous job in creation, but we didn't exactly need the money and it got me out of the house and from under Mom's feet for a few hours.
The first Saturday night dinner after I hit eighteen Mom produced a bottle of wine. Somehow booze had never held any appeal for me, so I'd never tried it, but I must admit I liked the taste of the wine. The only problem was it made me a little silly, clowning around and hugging her a bit more than was really necessary. Nothing even remotely improper, just exuberance. Mom pretended to be annoyed, but the whole evening she couldn't keep the smile off her face.
Things began to change subtly over the next few months. I was seeing her differently now, taking in the swell of her smallish breasts, her trim waist, and the delightful roundness of her bottom. Seeing her the way my friends had seen her. There were times when my imagination got the better of me, especially lying in bed at night, and I jerked off guiltily as I pictured how I thought she would look naked. We were both smiling a lot, and several times she caught me studying her when I thought she wouldn't notice. She never said anything, but her smile would grow mysterious, and often she would touch my shoulder or ruffle my hair as she passed my chair. There were also subconscious gestures that I couldn't really point to, and she made occasional remarks about how much I had grown to resemble Dad, and how nice it was to have a man around the house again. If it had been any other woman I might have thought she was sending out signals, but since she was my Mom I knew that was all in my overactive imagination.
One Saturday night as we polished off a rather good beef stroganoff, washed down with a nice red, she gave me a wistful smile. "Do you know what today is, Davey?" Before I could reply, she went on. "Our wedding anniversary. Nineteen years ago tonight was the happiest night of my life. For the first time I could openly sleep with the only man I ever loved." She took a sip from her glass, then reached across and squeezed my hand. "Before you, that is."
I thought about what she had told me as we ate, and when we finished I remained sitting at the dinner table watching Mom wash the dishes. I was wearing an open neck sport shirt with neatly pressed slacks, and she was in a not too short slightly flared skirt, and a white blouse. An unbidden image popped into my head of her lying naked and open, as my Dad thrust his cock up into her swollen, six months pregnant belly. In an uncomfortable way I felt like I was intruding, so I tried to distract myself by studying the way her ass moved as she moved from one foot to the other. In my mind I lifted up the hem of her skirt, so my hands and eyes could wander freely over the wonderful globes. I returned to reality when she finished and turned away from the sink, and I felt my cock stiffening when I noticed that water had splashed on her blouse, highlighting one large perfect nipple. She came towards me, and I was sure she noticed my bulge, but she didn't let on. She had this strange smile as she moved closer, until her neat boobs were only a couple of inches from my face. I could smell her womanly scent, which just made my cock even harder.
There was something different about her that I couldn't quite pinpoint. I was vaguely aware that she was telling me how much she loved me, but I couldn't concentrate on her words because her hands were behind my head, pulling me tight against her bosom. I knew I was not thinking straight, but it was just too tempting. I forced a cough, using it as an excuse to move my head until my mouth was next to her wet nipple. Suddenly I was a bit scared I'd gone to far, but she didn't saying anything, just took a deep breath as her nipple hardened against my closed lips. That was when I realised what was different. For the first time I could recall she wasn't wearing a bra, and without thinking I opened my mouth and sucked her nipple through the thin fabric.
I was expecting her to back away and yell at me, but her chest was rising and falling faster, and I wondered if maybe she was sending out signals after all. Either way I was too turned on to care, and my hand moved up under her skirt until my palm rested on the smooth skin of her inner thigh, a few inches above her knee. With the hem of her skirt resting on my wrist her scent was really strong, and there was a huge lump in my throat as she pulled me tighter against her tit. She did nothing to stop me sliding my hand higher up the inside of her thigh, and I was a bit shocked when instead of touching her panties, my finger slipped between the lips of her very bare, very wet pussy.
