Reflections 41

"Well, this is pretty neat."

Neat. What a mom word. Charles almost cringed at the description of his teams workout area. A large room of weights, hockey pictures on the wall, matts on the floor, lots of mirrors, and - oh my god, what is that smell!

"Yea, it's cool."

OK, Charles, spare me the "I'm a High School Hockey Player" tone who's not interested in talking to his mom or bringing her out in public. There's nobody else here, sweetie. Just because your 18 doesn't mean you stop having a mom. You're not going to lose any street cred, if there was still such a thing.

But sweet Jesus, that smell. A strong, sweaty odor that no amount of cleaning would ever remove. The grimy, dirty smell of boys working out, lifting weights, shirts off, muscles bulging. God, it was a sour smell.

Charles is looking at you. Quit sniffing the air you hormonal freak. It's creeping him out.

"Who's is this...?"

Yea, who the hell owns this little dojo at the back of an auto supplies warehouse? I mean, what is the connection? It's certainly big and nice, with lots of pricey equipment, but there's no sign. No advertising.

"Sam's dad. It's his store..."

Ah. That explains that. Well, as long as it isn't some creepy dude letting High School boys come and work out. Probably jerking off in some room while he watches. Fucking men will jerk off to anything.

Charles, what are you doing? Ah turning on a set of speakers connected to a small iPod, that's what. And now, a familiar loud rap song playing, the music I have learned to hate. That's sweet, Charles. Thanks for turning it down before I yelled at you to do it.

"Alright, honey. I'll be back in an hour. I'm stopping by the Jewelers and the bank, and then I need to pick up dinner. So, maybe a little longer."

There is no way I'm cooking tonight. I should have Frank pick it up, then I could maybe stop and find a new dress or two. Or maybe some new workout clothes. Look at yourself Elizabeth, loosing some of that butt weight just might put you over the top. Your black hybrid yoga pants look pretty darn good on you, but with a little more tightness in that ass, I might just stop wearing underwear. Ha!

And wow, your boobs are practically climbing out of your cleavage. Nice job. Just as you planned for your little out and about shopping spree. Breast feeding is still your good friend. Even so, no form fitting shirt at the waist until you loose some of that belly. But the soft blue top, nice form, Elizabeth, nice full. Tight fit with lots of boob showing. Perfect.

"Can we have Chinese?"

Come on, Charles, can't you just be a little willing to let others get what they would like? Please, try to act like your age - which is 18, last time I checked. You are an adult. And after listening to you whine the whole way here about not being able to take the car, because I wanted to get out of the house too, I don't think so.

"I'll think about it. Isn't there anyone else stopping by?"

I have to say, the more I think about it, the less I like leaving my son in the back of some building. God, it's like I'm dropping him off to be raped. Ha. A teenage boy should be so lucky, as long as it was a girl. Maybe even a milf.

"Sam might, but he's still raking his yard."

Milf, now there's a fun word. I wonder if the team think's I'm a milf. Would they let me rape them? I bet some would. Shit, you might have a little bulk in that belly, and maybe your bottom has seen better days. But look at you Elizabeth, you 44 year old blonde mom. I bet some of the boys have you do some wild things in their jerk off sessions. You've certainly had them do some in yours.

Just stop, mind. Quit roaming, you hormonal basket case. Focus on the task at hand and get out of here.

"Alright, just be safe."

OK, Elizabeth, one last look at your hair in the mirror. Fix that before you walk through the little high end strip mall, trying to look good for the masses. You have your purse for a reason. Grab some lipstick, pout your lips, almost like your giving some teenage stud a blowjob.

Stop it.

Charles is simply sitting, on his phone, clearly waiting for me to leave. Well, who want's their mom watching them work out. Fuck, you need to use the bathroom so you might as well just primp in privacy. If this place has a bathroom. Christ, I wonder what it smells like.

"Honey, is there a bathroom I can use before I go?"

Could you at least get your face out of that phone while you answer me?

"Yea, it's in the office to the left when you go out."

Screw it. Save the lessons on manners for another place, not the gym. Not where the essence of manhood will over power any motherly charm.

"Thanks. Have fun."

Alright, just leave him alone. Get on with your free time. Sarah's watching the kids at home. You could probably stretch your time away, but God, you should have nursed before you left and not raced out of the house. Your boob plan is backfiring on you. Not nursing for 8 hours - to grow them to maximum capacity for your time in public - might have been a mistake.

Your out of the dojo. Fresh air, thank the Lord. The smell was letting your mind run wild. Jesus, it was almost like an aphrodisiac. My brain is clearing, my hormones are calming. Of course, Charles turns the music up to a somewhat loud and obnoxious level. Well, at least you won't have to listen to it.

Here is the door to the left. Open it and...blackness. The light switch is probably right...here. Bingo, bright light everywhere from overhead. I'd say this is not really an office Charles, more like another room to workout. And what the hell is that!

Jesus, almost the entire left wall is a window to the dojo. The workout room. A giant, one way mirror. I mean, my God, I was just standing on the other side of it, looking at my own reflection. Now I'm staring at Charles, still on his phone, texting away. This is creepy on so many levels. But, christ, it's not like they don't know about it. Still...

Just go pee and get out of here. I suppose if it was my daughter's locker room I might have a reason to flip out. And maybe if the mirror was to this bathroom, which is surprisingly clean, I'd have a case. Just turn, roll your pants over your ass, pull down the thong wedged in your butt cheeks, and do NOT touch your bottom to the seat.

Oohhh... Did I need to pee. Look at Charles, sitting on the workout bench, just staring at himself in the mirror. Thank God he has my long blonde hair, my deep blue eyes. My pale skin and, I have to say, good looks. The height he got from his asshole dad, but at least that was all. He's so pretty to look at.

Where is the fucking toilet paper. Jesus, guys, not everyone drip dries. The walk of shame, pants at my knees, ready to chew out the kids for once again letting mom do the toilet roll replacement. Walking around with her bush out, scaring away the germs, bending over, ass completely on display.

Another friendly surprise. A nice, well organized under the sink area. Not too shabby, and soft, plush toilet paper. None of the rough paper that scratches my, well, woman parts. Just unroll a huge mass in your hand, stand, and press. Toss it in the toilet, repeat, and wipe your butt in the upright position.

Perhaps shutting the door was in order. Just be ready to run if anyone walks in. Hurry up with the ass wipe. It is a little weird with your son staring at himself in the mirror as you wipe. But it sure beats the first time you caught him masturbating to you in the shower. Ha, emphasis on the first.

Yea, that was interesting, wasn't it. Charles was supposed to be downstairs watching the kids, letting you clean up from the day. A movement in the bathroom mirror caught your eye, and there he was, in the darkness of your bedroom, watching. Playing with himself.

"Well, mom's still got it." Way to go, Elizabeth, that was your first and only thought, wasn't it. You were flattered and you know it. Do not even try to pretend otherwise. The soft, 43 year old woman was still boner material. If you could have, you would have run out of the shower and hugged him, thanking him for the emotional support.

Now that would have ended things in a pretty odd manner. So, you just did what any good mother would do and ignored it. Let him watch as you soaped your chest, cleaned your vagina, all behind the clear shower glass. And sure, maybe you spent a little long cleaning the poop out of your poop hole.

Memory lane is over, Elizabeth. Pull up your pants and get going. Your not at home, in your bathroom, leaving the door open on purpose for prying teenage eyes. You can do that later tonight if Frank is not around. Tuck that thong in your ass, stretch the pants back over your bottom, and flush.

Look at those long, ruby nails. Don't break them as you wash your hands. They've taken a long time to grow, so don't screw it up in some rush to get shopping. Calm down, look at your face. Just a little more blush, a few applications of eye liner, and one more painting of the lips. Brush your hair, get it full, and voila, you are ready to be lusted over.

Now, time to get...

There is something for the mom masturbation memory bank. Charles is lying back, pushing up a bar of weights, legs bent and open with his feet on the ground. His penis isn't hard, but it certainly isn't hidden. The soft fabric of his shorts pushes into it as he pushes up the weight again, flexing his muscles. His penis seems to jerk from the effort. Hello tingly feelings.

All of that blood, rushing through his body. Feeding his strength and muscles. The strong, long legs. The firm, sculpted arms. The thick, heavy chest. Remember the smell from the room. Inhale, watching the outline of his boyhood move from right to left.

Another press, another shift. I can't look away. It's so exciting, watching him when he doesn't know he's being watched. My mouth is dry. I'm alone. Nobody knows I'm here. My tongue is desperate for moisture, rolling into my lips. It have to, moving my hand onto my stomach, slipping low, pushing into my pants.

Oh, there it is... Holy christ, what a shutter. My clit, deep beneath my hair and folds of skin. God, it want's some loving. Just hold my palm still, rub my fingertip gently over the hard nub of flesh. Start gentle. Look at that boy's penis, imagining his shorts slipping down for your prying eyes. Close your eyes. Picture it.

The warm rubbings feel so needed inside of me. I could feel my scratch building up all day. The hormones. Open your eyes, look at Charles again, now sitting up, staring at his buff body in the mirror. Looking intently as the blood pulses through his body, admiring his physique.

What the hell are you doing, Elizabeth? You could get caught. Someone could just walk in and find you with your hands down your pants, staring at your son. Get a grip. Turn, move to the door, and fucking lock it.

Now your safe. Now you are secure. Just pretend you were in the bathroom if someone knocks. You didn't miss anything, hands still in your pants, as Charles is once again on his back. But holy shit, he seems much more erect.

Fuck, did teenage boys get hard from everything? From waking up? From going to school? From working out? From eating dinner? From watching mom in the shower?

You know they do, Elizabeth, which is why you dress the way you do. To turn on these boners, to feel alive and sexy, to be young and wanted. Because lord knows, you are not getting any younger. The grey hairs are becoming longer and harder to color. Your bush has even started to grey.

Who cares. Just enjoy the moment. Push low, feeling the wetness of your vagina. The lips starting to bloom, your own blood starting to rush through your body. This is your moment with yourself. Your turn to enjoy your son. Lord knows you've let him enjoy you plenty.

How many times have you sat in the living room while he watched television, getting comfortable and preparing to nurse. Lifting up up your shirt and exposing your engorged chest, ready for feeding. You don't look at Charles, but you feel his eyes stray from the tv.

Eyes that watch you unclasp the flap on your nursing bra. Expose your swollen and engorged breast. Gently express milk out of your puffy nipple. And as your milk begins to flow you lean forward. The latch on. At this moment your blue eyes lock on his. Letting him know it's ok to look. To watch. It's natural. It's part of life.

And so are the erections that come from it, the feelings. The need to leave the room when I'm done, go up to your bedroom, and masturbate. I know you do it. I can hear you, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Sometimes even standing just outside your door. You can't help it that mom's breasts excite you. Your a young, hormonal, teenage boy.

But I'm an older, hormonal, middle aged woman. And I have needs too. I have feelings I can't control. That I don't want to resists. That come from nursing. The come from muscles. From bulges. From young, teenage boys letting me feel like I'm young and hot again. Your door's keyhole only reveals so much, Charles. I'm going to enjoy you as you've enjoyed me.

Rub a little harder, Elizabeth. Dig out those feelings. Look at Charles, sitting up, now gently rubbing the hardness between his legs. He can't control it, squeezing it, pressing into his erection. He's looking at it, perhaps wondering what to do about it. There's nothing he can do but slip his hands in his shorts and rub it.

Who is he thinking of? Which little teen girl in yoga pants with the thong sticking out at the top, bending over at her locker? Are the girls still running out at lunch to give blowjobs? Let you play with their tits in the back of a car? Is that what you masturbate to?

Or do you think of my tits. These, under the soft, cotton shirt I'm wearing. The soft blue shirt I'm now folding over the back of my head, showing you my large, engorged tits. There's not a girl in your school with nursing boobs, swollen like a balloon and ready to pop. Look at these tits.

You do look, don't you. Mommy is such a good mommy, wearing her towel so appropriately out of the shower. Hair wet and dripping as you bring in a crying bundle of joy. Patiently you hold stand, waiting as I sit and get comfortable. Opening my towel, exposing myself, sometimes top to bottom. Letting you know I'm ready.

Here they are, mom's tits, right under my nursing bra. But, oh, wait, Charles, I just opened the right one. My dark, heavy nipple is out. I'm so ready to nurse. Thank you honey, I've got it now. But you can stay. Watch me express my milk? Help with the latch on? Or, wait, maybe you would you like to nurse?

I know you would. So, here, let mom start her milk flow. Look at me, caressing my boob for you, rubbing it slowly as you rub your erection. My tongue is working overtime, licking my lips, getting my juices flowing. The milk is letting down. Oh, Charles. Watch.

It's like I'm ejaculating out of my breast, white fluid spraying out in front of me. God, it's such an orgasmic feeling when my milk lets down. I wonder who else masturbates while they nurse. Squeeze hard, Elizabeth, look at the milk spray against the one way mirror.

Only milfs can do this, Charles. Only milky milfs. Only your mom. Look at me, jerking my tit for you. So sad I'm out of sight and out of mind. You're probably imagining Tess bending over for you right now. Being the good, late night friend from grade school she is. Putting the computer up to her butt, like all the teenage cam girls do, bending over and spreading her ass.

Is that what you want? Some bunny time? I really don't give you any bunny time at all, do I? Oh, well let me turn around then and wiggle my ass. Shit, I can twerk. I can simulate getting fucked from behind. Unlike most of your little girls friends, I've actually been fucked in this position. I know what I'm doing.

Look at me bouncing my ass up and down for you, one tit free, dripping onto the floor. I can see you Charles, picking up the pace of your rubbings. Am I am moving like some white suburban mom pretending to be a dirty black dancer? Is this what it means to pop that ass?

I bet the teenage girls bend over like this, pausing, letting you focus on one spot. Maybe I should back up to the camera, as close as I can. Can you see alright, am I centered. Because I think I might pull down my pants so you can see everything. Let me reach behind and just roll these tight yoga pants over my soft, white ass.

How's my thong. Do you like it, light blue, just like a little girls? Does it show you enough of my ass, pants hanging mid thigh? Are my bunnies filling up your computer monitor so you can jerk off to them? Here, I'll rub my hands over them, softly playing with butt cheeks.

Look at Charles, lying back, playing with himself. His eyes are closed. His tongue is out. Thinking of Rebeca, in her bikini, bent over before him. Does she do this Charles, grab the center of her swimsuit and pull it to the side while your on the beach?

Here it is. What you want. My nudity. My ass, bent over for you, pussy wet and hanging low. Maybe a bit more hair than your are used to, but go ahead, look at me expose myself for you. Pushing my ass into the glass. Feeling the cool surface press into my vagina.

Oh, but wait. Let me get on my knees, butt facing you, a teenage girl too embarrassed to show her small, undeveloped chest. My nipples are just starting to grow. My boobs are not yet fully formed. But, I have an asshole. Let me bend over, onto my shoulders, and show you.

Fuck, look at it. I'm pulling my cheeks wide, moving my finger over my poop hole. Charles, is this what I hear you jerking off to at night, screen glowing under the door? Are you snap chatting with some little blonde girl, bent over before you while fingering her asshole.

I can do it to, touch my bunny hole. Press my long nail against it, slipping into my ass. It may be dark and dirty, stained from years of use, but it's still tight. I can feel my anal hairs dragging against my finger as I push, not the fully shaved girl you are probably used to. But I know you don't care. I know you like jerking off to me.

Just slip your dick in me. Right here, where my thumb is. Pulling open my lips. Moving my hips back and forth, pretending you're fucking me. My thumb is your teenage erection, firm, slipping in. Do it. I'm doing it. God, a thumb in my pussy and finger in my ass. Do you know what it means to six pack a girl? I need to do this more often. It feels so dirty. Are you behind me, Charles?

Fuck, there you are, pants at your ankles, exposed. Playing with yourself on the weight bench. I want to watch, to remember this, to relive it forever. Get off your knees and grab your phone, Elizabeth. Record that masturbating teenager before he blows his load all over himself.

Shit, where is...here it is. Got it. Charles has paused, resting, recovering. Lucky mom, it's like he's waiting for you. Turn on the phone, touch the screen, camera, video, round red button. On. There it is, the screen. Point it at him. Stand close to the mirror and record your son.

Charles is spreading his knees, looking at the long, white erection between his legs in the mirror. Proud of his manhood, his physique. Teens these days are so focussed on themselves, their looks, their millennial aura. Charles holds his aura in his hands, watching himself stroke it. You know his technique well, don't you Elizabeth.

Push your panties down. Get them out of the way and get back to work on your heavy bush. Feel the wet folds, moving your legs apart, letting your fingers penetrate them. The squishing noise echoes in the room despite the music. Your scent begins to mix in with the smell of sweat and boys.

Christ, and take your bra off. Your exposed tit is screaming to be released. Squeezing out of the open flap. Release the hounds, let them run free. Rub them, feel the firm lobules indicating your engorged state. The state you have been so desperately keeping since Amanda's been born.