Motherfriend

Longtime lurker, first-time submission.

This is a work of literary erotica, not a 'Double-D Cheerleader' story. It's driven by relationship, scenario & dialogue. So please don't down-vote out of malice. I like to explore interesting couplings in a realistic way. Put two people in a room, lock the door, see what happens.

All characters are 18 or older.

Touch yourself. It's better that way.

♡♡♡

The first time I saw my mother naked was about three or four months ago. It was winter at any rate, but quite sunny out and the house was warm. I'd gone into her bedroom one afternoon to look for something and found her napping in the nude, covers thrown off to one side.

I remember being embarrassed, and for a while looking away and continuing to pretend, only to myself, to look for...I dunno, whatever it is I'd gone in there looking for, I can't remember now. All I knew was this urging desire to look at her again, exposed to me as she was like that, unaware I was there. I mean my mom is a pretty woman, without doubt, and definitely in great shape for her age, but - well, she was my Mom. I'd never had any thoughts about her in any way that involved seeing her undressed. Yet in that moment, especially if I didn't look directly at her face, just her body...there was a living, warmly alive, nude

woman

before me. That sounds stupid, but you get what I mean. In the soft light that streamed in around the blinds, she wasn't my mother. She was a moment of female eroticism frozen in time.

As I said, at first I tried to not stare, to invade her private moment like some gawking kid. I mean I was technically already an adult. Yet still a virgin. I'd never seen a woman naked, not really, actually. Plus if anything, I figured, she'd probably take no offense about it if she knew. She was always trying to get me to open-up about myself, talk about my feelings toward girls, warning me about the need to use condoms, how she'd get some for me anytime and not to be embarrassed to ask. It frustrated me to no end, and I usually withdrew, both emotionally and physically, from any of these discussions.

In fact a short time before my eighteenth birthday mom had made a half-joke about hiring a stripper for me. Just the mention of it caused me to seize-up inside. But then she pressed on with the idea, talked about how she worked with this woman who did exotic dancing on occasion.

'I mean we probably couldn't actually have her perform at your party,'

mom continued.

'That would just be...a terrible idea, obviously. But Bobbi's really outgoing, and honey she's really gorgeous.'

This last was aimed at me, which made me squirm so that I couldn't look at her.

'And I already said I was going to make myself scarce all night for your party. So maybe I should just see if she'd be willing to swing by after it ends, to check in on stuff...whatever'.

I'd shut down completely at this, not answering in any way I recall coherently. I'd regret that a thousand times, especially that quiet night of the party after my friends had gone home. But what was I supposed to say, to do? Was she honestly trying to get me laid? Pimp out some friend of hers? This was my mom, not one of my buddies. Yet this was how it was, sometimes, with her. She worried about me. Probably some kind of single-mom guilt or some shit. She tried to

meddle

in my...you know, my guy stuff. A lot.

Oh so here's another great example. One time in ninth-grade I find this non-descript box in my room, and when I opened it there was a hodge-podge of used camping supplies. But as I dug them out I found a small stack of old Playboy magazines in the bottom. When I asked her furtively about the box, she'd replied a little too-offhandedly that it was just something she'd found in the garage, probably my dad's, so she hadn't even looked in it and wanted me to sort it out and see if there was anything worth keeping. The thing was I'd already noticed a small strip of Amazon.com packing tape that hadn't been completely torn off, so I knew that box wasn't old. And I hadn't even started thinking about girls in that way, back then. Well, maybe a little.... So I hid the magazines away, more out of embarrassment about admitting anything openly. But soon enough they would call to me, in the way they were meant to. I mean the women were beautiful, and there was something secretly naughty about having them.

Shit, though. Now as I write this, I finally get what my mother was doing.

Because naturally I'd soon discover that there were a bajillion-million sex videos on the internet of every insane horny-making thing anyone could ever imagine. So why was it she wanted me to get my first few peeks at a female body out some old Playboys? Maybe to distract me from all that for just a little longer, to soften the hormonal blow about sexuality the internet would eventually deliver. And I did look at the magazines, from time to time. I still have them tucked in a corner of my closet right now.

So now, on this day, as I began to sneak embarrassed glances at my mother's

au naturel

nudity lying in casual sultriness on the bed, I felt a growing connection with what those photographers had been able to capture, more so than the stuff I usually jerked to online. I felt now a kind of rapid flutter in my belly, a need to take in the sheer beauty of this moment. I found myself drawn to take my own mental snapshot. To look directly at her.

She was sound asleep, that was obvious, and something about the fleeting possibility of the moment overcame my fear that she might awaken to find me perving on her. She lay on her side, turned away from me but with one leg drawn high-up over a thick pillow like a lover. She looked like the figure in some elegant, pretentiously arranged painting or something. But it wasn't a painting. Plus the sheets were messily wrinkled and mismatched, which I suppose a half-decent painter would have done something about. To be honest, it wasn't her breasts that caught me, which I couldn't even see really. Or her butt, which I saw clearly. What captured me was the sight of the dark tuft of fur so slightly exposed between her thighs, so perfectly framed in a thin swath of sunlight. It was her sex. Her womanhood, just suddenly...there. For me to wonder at, be captivated by. And I realized that even though she was my mom, she had that same promise of sex that I'd been so often imagining and realizing lay beneath the thin clothing of virtually every girl at my school. But at this moment, right now, that sex was right there before me, yielding itself by happy accident to my curiosity.

I slowly moved forward, trying to stifle the sudden rasping of my breath and anxiously listening for the slightest change in hers. I could clearly see a slightly lighter stroke of color in the dark tuft. I want to describe it as her 'pink lips' or some such drivel, but in truth I couldn't clearly tell if I was looking at the fabled lips themselves. So I drew closer still, heartbeat pounding through my entire body at once. I came within just a couple feet, until I could make out the softly rounded crease of the very desire from which all my teenage dreams were born. I was transfixed. My penis now seemed to fill my jeans to tightness. I began to wonder if I could get closer, enough to smell the scent...maybe to touch it ever so lightly....

Something about her breathing shocked me to my senses, and I quietly, quickly made my way out of the room again. I'm ashamed to say I went with some hesitancy to my bedroom and masturbated. At first fantasizing about my mother's vagina, but then as I approached orgasm I shifted my thoughts to something safer. Some girl from school no doubt.

♡♡♡

Seriously. I didn't give much thought to that encounter afterword. And yet that's not true at all. Something had shifted in me. Not a sexual urge toward my mother by any means, but rather I began to have a realization, in certain moments at least, that she wasn't just 'Mom' as I'd always assumed her to be. She also had a sex. She also had that secret I yearned to know more of just behind the thin clothes she wore about the house. This realization would come at odd, random moments: watching her knelt over on the floor doing a jigsaw puzzle, on the phone one lazy weekend afternoon with her pajama top loose, shopping for my graduation clothes as she fumblingly tried show me how to tie a tie in the dressing room of J C Penny, hearing her enter her room long after I'd gone to bed in the evening....

I'd never known my dad, he'd left before I could remember, but my mom never talked bad about him. I could say more about that but it's not important to this story.

What I should say is that my mom was the kind of mom who was more a friend to me than a mom. Not that she treated me like a friend rather than a son, it's more that we always seemed to have what I'd eventually come to realize was a remarkably easy-going relationship. Unusually friction-free, I know now.

She was younger than the moms of most of my friends, if that matters. I'd only know the difference later when I went to college, but I realize now we tended to lean on each other more than most of my friends seemed to do. I never really thought her to be lonely. She dated on occasion, but always kept it separate. She had a female friend who seemed to be over quite often, but none of that stuff ever made much of an impression on me. She wanted it that way.

And she was fun. I say she was more like a friend than a mom, and it was really a lot of both, but she was fun to be with. We spent endless weekends together, whether I had friends over or not. And as I got to be a teenager I just naturally accounted her among the various options I might have for how to spend a boring weekday evening. If no one else was free I never had any problem heading home and hitting mom up for something to do to pass the time. Like I said, we had a strangely easy, effortless relationship. She might have something different to say about that, but I doubt it.

At some point, I think it was during my Junior year, she roped me into taking dance classes with her. 'Partner Dance' it was called, which you might know as Ballroom dance. Salsa, Tango, Foxtrot, Waltz, Rhumba, Line Dance, yadda yadda.... I seriously hated it at first. And at second. But eventually, to make what felt like an interminably long story short, began to enjoy it. I hated it because it sucked to learn, as I guess everything really important does. Plus I was being made to learn it with my fucking mom! She literally blackmailed me into doing it, and there were so seriously many fights we had about this, but long story short I went with her way too many times and eventually I started to get pretty good at it. And started to understand why she wanted to do it.

The interesting thing about Partner Dance is that you can get to know someone on a very visceral level very quickly. As the lead, meaning as the guy, when you have enough confidence in a style to take a woman and really lead her, so many things about her come to the surface all at once. A man who can really lead a woman, in even just one style of dance, can experience her in a way that might take years of intellectual and emotional relationship to otherwise grasp. Perhaps I'm exaggerating, but I feel that to be true. And the most amazing thing is that the woman doesn't actually need to know a thing about dancing for you to do this. In fact the less she knows the more you'll rock her world, as my mom likes to say. Few men learn this mystical skill, especially here in America.

The point I'm making is that after a certain time my mom and I began to dance very well together. This seemed to be generally acknowledged by the entire class. And it's simply because we had fun together. It sounds strange, but we saw it occasionally in other couples. The ones who knew enough to stop caring about how the world saw them and just enjoy having fun together were the most fascinating to watch. And mom and I played. We screwed-up, took risks and such, broke the rules, had fun...and often noticed how the other couples in the room secretly envied us.

But I should probably stay true to the point of this whole story I guess. So I'll skip to the first time my mom and I had sex.

♡♡♡

Before I relate the rest of this I just realized I've already written several pages of an erotic story and have yet to brag about the size of my penis. It's huge, as far as you know. I suppose maybe nine inches might typical for a story like this, you think? I'll let you decide, I trust you. And it can be cut or uncut to suit your personal fantasy need. I'm all about pleasing you...so long as pleasing you involves me and my mom having sex, which is what's about to happen.

Oh, you could even make it black if you want. You can even make me black if you want too, I don't mind. In all honesty my dick

is

strangely darker than the rest of my skin, so there's that...

I also want to be crystal clear that for several months after my peep show of my mother's vagina I completely forgot about the whole incident. My Senior year of high school was well underway. I'd turned eighteen and while I'd had a couple girlfriends I was still a virgin, so I had that whole thing to contend with on a minute-by-minute basis. I'd recently had two regretful dates with a girl named Tori. Both ended awkwardly, because I was awkward around her. So that sucked.

And then one Friday night I spent at home watching a series on Netflix when my mom came in from the back porch where she'd been talking on the phone and smoking pot. She doesn't smoke very often, just so you know. But she gets really cuddly when she does. Not that that means anything. But it it sorta does. In this case.

So I was laying against one arm of the couch, leg stretched up along the back cushions, and mom came in and nuzzled herself into a spot against the other arm. After a moment, "what're you watchin'?" "'Breaking Bad' it's pretty good." "Do I need to know anything?" "The guy looking up at the pizza on the roof is dying of cancer, but he knows chemistry so he started making meth." "Oh sure, that seems logical." "Yeah, I was thinking of doing it myself." "That sounds nice, you're a smart kid."

We watched for a while longer. Mom's mellow seemed to deepen and she gradually nuzzled into the couch, stroking my leg casually and harmlessly every so often. And somewhere in there while Walter White was trying to keep his home together, mom suddenly nestled her feet up into my lap. "Rub my feet honey, please."

"Seriously, gross mom."

"No it's not gross I just got out of the bath less than an hour ago."

"No! I mean massaging my mother's feet is kinda gross."

"I'm not asking you to massage them! I'm asking you to

rub

them, just do it and stop bitching."

I actually did bitch for a little while more, but eventually started to rub them, because as I thought about it I realized I wanted to in a way. I find women's feet sort of sexy. Not in a pervy fetish way, just, you know...a turn on...fun to play with. And her feet were really nice. Not calloused or anything. Slim and high-arched, with nice nails, though unpainted.

I also began to notice her legs as well. She was wearing a thin, long t-shirt about the house that evening and I'd assumed some tight shorts under it. But now, her smooth legs stretched up into my lap and her shirt carelessly riding up on one side, it seemed more likely that she had just thrown the tee on over her panties. In the flicker of the television I found myself snatching glimpses of her thighs. Not because I wanted to do anything or have anything happen, just simply because I had a sexy pair of bare legs stretched before me and it was a meaningless perv.

But they were also warm and soft and real. And there are parts of us that just can't think too far beyond that. I began to concentrate a lot more on rubbing her feet than the TV, and she could tell. She would let out the occasional 'mmm-mmm', or 'ow -- no don't stop that's a good spot'. Now I was 'massaging' her feet. Enjoying touching them, enjoying how she responded to my touch. And I suppose being high, she was fine with that.

But the thing is her feet were in my lap. So as I involuntarily began to get hard, it eventually became apparent to her. I slowly inched the foot I was working on away from the swelling in my jeans, but the other was firmly pressed into my thigh, and my wayward hard-on was burrowing under it like the root of some fast-growing tree. I was too embarrassed to do anything decisive about the situation. Or more likely I just didn't want this to make this stop just yet, so I naively hoped she simply wouldn't notice.

She didn't move away, or tell me to stop. And I didn't move away, or stop. I was swept up in a kind of sexual hyper-awareness, my senses bursting with desire and my body alive and awake. Yet at the same time I was strangely watching everything from outside myself. I stroked her foot lovingly, wanting to feel her respond, and delighting in feeling my own response as well. For her own part her eyes never left the screen. But I knew in a way she wasn't watching it at all. We were both pretending nothing was happening, even while all our awareness was focused on what was happening. Massaging my mother's beautiful feet.

She slowly, absent-mindedly, began to press her unattended foot against my jeans.

My cock tensed inside, involuntarily urging itself upward into the caress. I stopped massaging for a brief moment as all my willpower went to the yearning in my hard-on. I resumed kneading at the sole of her foot and several moments passed, but then she laughed quietly at something on-screen and pressed again against my bulge. Then wiping absent-mindedly at her nose, she pushed in again, this time turning her toes in slightly and rubbing. My dick surged to hardness, to both my pleasure and pain. I felt my breathing intensify and immediately tried to rein it back to normal.

The situation had suddenly become too real, too urgent. I was now in the grip of a confusing, overwhelming need for sexual release that I couldn't get. I felt stupid, and slightly scared. I wanted to excuse myself away and go masturbate, but that would be too weird. I began to realize I'd been massaging her one foot for far too long. Should I take up working on her other foot and use that as an excuse to readjust to a safer position? That was the most sensible thing to do, and I readied myself to do that as nonchalantly as I could.

She pressed in against my straining cock once more, this time pushing upward slightly, and holding it. My eyes closed halfway, and I'm pretty sure I panted quietly. She maintained the pressure, and I gave up on my escape plan.

"Are you getting hard?" she suddenly asked.

How was I supposed to answer that?

"What?" That's how I answered that.

"You

do

need a girlfriend," she replied huskily. Her foot still urged against my erection. "Why aren't you with that Toni girl tonight?"

"Tori."

"Yeah her. She was cute. And she seemed like the kind of girl who was up for more than dating. Are you stalling on her or what?"

I'd heard Tori was seeing another guy in my class. It seemed likely enough that I wasn't going to call her until she called me, so hence I was watching TV while massaging my mother's feet on a Friday night.

"Yeah I dunno about Tori..."

She stared at me for a moment in a way that seemed kindly, but hard to read. Finally she pulled her one foot from my hands, and slid the other slowly up along my pants into the air in front of me. "Maybe you could work on this one for a while?"

She'd shifted herself to lying flat on the couch, her head on the arm-pillow and her eyes closed. I began to rub her foot in a more mechanical way, glad to be free of the need I'd felt to keep it where it was.