I know that I should have atleast told him that displaying himself in this way, infront of his mother, is highly irregular no matter what the situation. I know that I should have marched directly out of the room. I could not permit myself to think that his booming, rigid erection had anything to do with me, but then why did I want to believe that it did? And why did I so desperately need to fight the urge to diddle my twat, and in some prurient way want him to see me? Was I feeling that taboo desire also? Could I ever let him think that I was fantasizing about him? What might his reaction be? What if he told me that that stiff cock is because of me, what then? The hot flush became a cold shiver. Finally I dashed into the bathroom and soaked my frazzled head under a very cold shower. But after a few minutes, I adjusted the water and took the extra time to wash my betraying pubic area. The warm cloth massaged my aching pussy and teased the straining tip of my clit until I had a tremendous orgasm and collapsed to the floor of the tub.
I have learned recently that I need to constantly relieve the anxiety of this scorching sensation in my loins, brought about by my teenage son. Even during idle moments at work, I sometimes have to run to a private stall in the Ladies Room, because my mind has absently summoned a vision of my sexy son. The temporary satisfaction allows me to continue with my day, but only invites the deviant, sordid desires to plant themselves in my brain filling my every waking moment, (and quite a few while I'm asleep.) Where this will lead to, I can't imagine. And how it might play-out, I can only hope it to be good for us both.
This is strange to me, I've led a fairly sheltered life. At work, I have had men openly ogle my body and sometimes crudely, remark on my various attributes. Even then I used to laugh about it. I seem to always be in a submissive position and that for some reason, excites me. Domineering men intimidate me, I think that I like to be told what to do. I have been asked on dates and propositioned by co-workers. But as a single mom and professional woman, I usually declined and hurried home to be with my young son. Guys often flirted with me, and I would catch them staring at my chest. At my desk, I often noticed them leaning forward over me, to look down the front of my blouse. I have only a B-cup, but my boobs are perky and my nipples regrettably sprout in the air-conditioning or at the first sign of attention. Just their maleficent gaze makes me squirm in my seat, and if they knew the effect that they had on me, I'd fear for my good-girl reputation.
My legs are my nicest feature, and I often wear sheer or mesh stockings and high heels. I prefer skirts that are slit up one side, and I am often complimented on my "walk." Filing papers and reaching for items on the top or bottom shelves, always brings a devilish smile from men. It's a nice feeling and a great ego boost to gather a man's attention. And most women will admit, (if they're being honest,) that they dress and flirt in order to catch the eye of every guy in the room. And I think that even sub-consciously, you like the fact that once your son matures, and begins to "check-out" the other moms, his eyes still follow your figure around the room. Though he normally doesn't want you to catch him looking at you like that. I can remember vividly the day that he described me as a MILF. And the effect that had on my masturbation.
At his age, having gone to strip-clubs and lost his virginity to neighborhood girls, he wasn't shy in being cooped-up with his mom and pointing-out the enticing elements of a woman's body that whet his appetite, even if they are attached to his mom. And for me, it's been years since I allowed any man to get intimate or come between Teddy and me. Now at nearly forty years of age, I am rediscovering my sex-drive in an increasingly sordid way, and the strain is taking a toll. Those vulgar maneuvers that stimulate my senses, and the closeness that I would need from a partner are now dangerously combining into a situation that is startlingly close to home.
This is where the debauchery deepened. The dilemma intensified on the day that I was cornered while attempting to wash dishes. It started as a routine breakfast but there was very little about it that could be called "innocent." Our town was in the third week of a massive heat wave. We had only a window fan in the kitchen and it circulated the dusty, sticky air. I've heard people say that things are different when the temperature goes up. The old rules just don't seem to be enforced. By now we were reduced to dressing only for morality's sake. Any item of clothing that touched warm, moist flesh immediately became damp and uncomfortable as it stuck to your skin. The light colors and cotton fabrics took on nearly see-through characteristics. It left very little to the imagination, and yet it appears that our imaginations were on overdrive. Eyes just naturally were drawn to each other's curves and bulges. There was no way to be discreet.
I was getting used to seeing Ted bare-chested with just the tiniest of shorts or swimsuits to cover him. Every half-hour he would duck under the cold shower and emerge glistening and sexy-looking. He let the water drip down his muscular torso. His short hair would be spiky and his chest and back muscles rippled. He looked like a body builder being oiled-up before a meet. I was pained to take my eyes off of him, and he could tell. The wet shorts emphasized the distinctive mound between his legs and he was always pulling or tugging at it. I'm sure it was just innocent tucking and readjusting wet body parts, like I do. We had gotten pretty familiar with each other in our need to remain cool. The elastic band of my undies caused irritating moisture that I always needed to clumsily mop-up, catching his eye when my hand would disappear beneath my shorts. The simplest, most innocuous of gestures could be misrepresented. We were just too worn-down by the heat, to care.
On that fateful morning when he sat down at the clear glass breakfast table across from me, I couldn't help but to notice the abnormally huge bulge that his small trunks struggled to contain. Lately, either by intention or body heat, that solid lump was like the proud hour-hand of a stately clock indicating the witching hour has arrived. Sitting, standing, walking, it seemed that whenever I was near him, my eyes were summoned to that firm package riding so high and alluring behind that thin layer of material. More than once; I could see the huge, pinkish, helmeted head of his mesmerizing tool as it peeked above his tight shorts, seeming to point at the coarse hairs around his navel, and riding obscenely high before his mother's embarrassed eyes.
I was dressed rather informally also. My blonde hair was already a damp mop knotted in a ponytail, to keep it off my neck. And still the sweat pooled down my back and puddled in my slight cleavage. My only concession to makeup was lipstick and a light dusting of powder so that I didn't look like a glazed beast. I wore a white cotton tank top and the sheerest of bras, but already the fabric clung annoyingly to me and by simply glancing down, I could see the tiny points of my dark nips pushing out the material and announcing their presence. In the reflection of the glass and by the leering , laser focus of my son's blue eyes, it was plain that every dimple and bump of my tan areole, were on full, lascivious display.
I was bare-legged, my toes painted a dusty-pink to match my lips. I too, wore the smallest bikini bottoms in my drawer. I had even taken the time to carefully groom the light-brown pubic hairs that delicately frame my outer lips. Even when I was shaving, conflicting thoughts wrestled in my mind. I told myself that this was only proper hygiene and that the sudsing, rinsing and oiling of my mons was not meant to trigger the electric charge received from thinking about my son, (even though in my head, I knew that only Teddy would ever glimpse my silky-smooth inner thighs.) And even if he did happen to notice the fresh, sexy approach to my "Y," and it awakened the hidden giant in his shorts, it was not my intention to tease him or invite his salacious comments. I only believed that there should be no straggling hairs or razor bumps to ruin my summer look, and if I happen to grow wet from any particular person observing my private area, well that was only natural.
At first he snuck quick glances at my figure that I only caught in the mirror or from his embarrassed smiles. But more recently the appraisals have been like a man shopping for a car. And his sexually-tinged remarks at first uttered under his breath, were now spoken directly to my shocked ears. As I said, I found them in the beginning to be a little playful, innocent amusement that brought a laugh on these steamy, close days. Some of his comments confused me, making me wonder just what he was alluding to. He would say, "If you're so sweaty, why don't you just go around naked, there's nobody else here, and I would join you." Or "Those tops don't do much more than make you hot, and I can see right through them anyway, why bother?" And, "I don't know why you try to hide your shape, and obviously reveal it, at the same time?"
