Chapter 1 of Omelettes for Breakfast described surreptitious sex play among a mother, son, and daughter while preparing hubby's breakfast; he was unexpectedly delayed in leaving for the office. Aiming to write one page story I only briefly alluded to the back story. While not among my biggest hits, it was generally well received and several readers requested a prequel. Since I'd already confected much of the back story in my head it was relatively easy to write one. Here it is.
The mother is based on a woman I knew in college. She was pretty, but complained about her small breasts – she didn't think they went with her curvy body – and what she called (I did not agree) her mousy brown hair. We were occasional lovers, helping each other out between boyfriends or after a party, and while fun, she was conventional in bed. She graduated, moved several states away, and months later came back for a visit. I met her at the airport: she was blonde, "C" breasted, and on fire. Back at my place she was all over me; we barely got out of bed the rest of the weekend. The boob job and highlighting had freed her inner slut.
As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.
* * * * *
I did not recognize the car parked in front of the house. The door mat had reversed the door mat; it now faced the house. I checked the time. Mom would be home in half-an-hour, my sister knew that; whatever she had going on inside was wrapping up.
I could have gone to the coffee shop and waited, but I'm as curious (or nosy) as the next guy. I rolled my bicycle around the back, stuck my head inside, heard the upstairs shower running, ducked into the den, left the door cracked open. I was goofing on my tablet when my sister, wearing a robe, and Moa Berg, one of mother's hot friends – five foot, nine inches, 31-22-34, short brown hair, small round breasts, large wonderfully expressive blue eyes – came down the stairs. They kissed, one of those long indolent wow-was-the-sex-great-we-need-to-do-it-again kisses, and said good-bye.
Then Clara turned, stared straight at me, and said, "You're busted baby brother."
Emerging from the den I said, "How did you know?"
"That door was closed when Ms. Berg and I went upstairs."
I said, "You're observant," kissed her lips, "Moa Berg, huh. She tastes hot, is she hot?"
She said, "Very. You should take a shot at her; she's bored with her husband, wants to try new things," then kissed me, teased my tongue with hers. I slipped my hand inside her robe, ran my thumb over her nipple; she pressed her leg to my erection; the garage door opened. Fuck, Mom was home.
She walked in to my sister and I, the picture of innocence.
"Hey kids. Your Dad called, he's running late. Dinner will be delayed."
"Good, my baby brother wanted to show me something on his computer, now we'll have time. We'll be upstairs."
We moved when my sister took off for college nine months ago. In the new house the master bedroom was downstairs, mine and the guest (my sister's when she was home) upstairs. My parents rarely came upstairs, especially since I kept it neat and clean. Clara and I would not be disturbed.
* * * * *
It would have been a nice day to have a smaller car for we, even Clara, struggled to haul ourselves up into Mom's SUV. Clara had an audition tomorrow and partly to get ready and partly to work off nervous energy, she'd pushed herself through a work-out brutal even by her standards. It wouldn't be true to say Mom and I kept up, that would have been impossible, but, inspired by Clara we'd worked hard. We were pooped.
At home we showered, changed, and I, being the first one done, fixed three protein-laced smoothies.
What happened next might not have happened any other day of my life. It was a serendipitous confluence of events: the hard work-out spiked our endorphins, I was feeling my oats (I scored Moa Berg that morning (my sister was right, she was some hot)), and the fact that someone asked. Mom and Clara came out of my parents' bedroom wearing leggings and sleeveless tanks that left little to the imagination, Mom saying, "Why can't I get my ass as tight as yours, I've been trying for years."
Clara, with her dancer's butt, round and hard, said, "It's genetic, you're curvier than me. I take after Dad's family. And your rump's fine, ask your son."
They looked at me.
My mother had never asked for my opinion of her ass before.
I loved my mother's ass; it had the most delightful jiggle when she walked by.
Handing each lady a smoothie, I stood behind Mom, studied her butt (as if I hadn't been for years), asked her to tighten it up (she did), and said, "Clara's right, you have a great ass."
Mom opened the utility closet, which had a full length mirror on the back of the door, studied her backside, studied her body, then gestured to her chest. "Maybe you guys are right, but my curves don't look right with me being so flat up here."
Mom's dissatisfaction with her breasts was no secret. She'd mentioned them, and augmentation, on and off for years. Dad didn't seem to take her seriously, assuring his wife he liked her just the way she was, but in a passing way, more "Dear, I'm tired of talking about this," then, "Dear, by the time I get done with you tonight you'll know what a fine a piece of ass I think you are."
* * * * *
At dinner several days later Mom and Dad both were distracted. That was the norm for Dad, his mind invariably drifting back to the office or his golf game or who knows what. What was going on in Mom's head only became clear when, while serving dessert, she said, "Honey, I've been thinking about having work done on my chest."
Before Dad could respond Clara said, "You should Mom, as hard as you work to keep in shape, eat right, hit the gym, take care of yourself, you should have the body you want. Plus, not that I don't already have the world's hottest Mom, but you'd look fricking amazing. What do you think baby brother?"
I, a bit taken aback to be asked in front of Dad, went with the flow.
"Clara's right Mom, as dedicated as you are to keeping fit, as pretty as you are, you deserve it. Plus it would also look great with your figure. Whatta ya think Dad?"
My father, bewildered by the turn in the conversation, said. "The kids are right dear."
* * * * *
The procedure was scheduled for the afternoon but Clara and Mom left early, saying they had a surprise planned. I'd meet them at the out-patient facility. Since Mom was in good hands, Dad went to work.
In the prep room I discovered why they'd left early, Mom had her hair highlighted and straightened. Where there was once, like my sister, thick curly auburn locks, there was now a blonde. She'd also talked about doing this for years, believing blonde hair went better with her pale complexion, and seeing was believing, she looked great.
"Wow Mom, you were right about the color, it's perfect with your skin."
Mom turned, showed me the back, and said, "You really like it?"
"Yeah, may I touch?"
"Go ahead."
I ran my fingers through her hair, did the same with Clara's, and said, "The same wonderful thick texture. You look great."
Mom said, "What do you think your father will say?"
That set my sister off. "What will Dad say? Who cares? I don't notice him at the gym, eating right, taking care of himself. You look great, you know it, Steven and I know it, that's all that matters."
* * * * *
The procedure finished, Mom, blanket covering her, was home in bed. Dad was with her.
"How do you feel?"
