Piano Mom
byalwayswantedto©

Copyright © 2009, alwayswantedto. All Rights Reserved.

All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 or older.

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First Sight

I'm an accomplished piano player for my age. I won't say pianist because I'm not that talented but I've had many years of training, starting with lessons at the age of five from my piano teacher mom.

Mom is a stay-at-home wife who always supplemented our family income through piano lessons, provided (mostly) to the members of our parish which produced a fresh crop of students each year. For years, I watched Mom teach other kids, from beginners to graduates just surpassing their teacher's ability. We often attended recitals at our church to hear these students regale our flock with their prowess.

Mom always said I was capable of surpassing all of her past students. She was especially encouraging during my last year of high school when I was particularly keen to quit the piano in favor of the more earthly pleasures I had discovered that year in the back seat of my friend's car.

I have to say that the special encouragements that actually kept me in the piano game weren't her enthusiastic exhortations but rather the warm press of her loosely skirted thigh as she sat next to me on the piano bench and the accidental brush of her breast, clad in the silky white blouses she favored for teaching. I would often forego the opportunity to hang out with friends because I couldn't bring myself to give up an evening practice with Mom. Anyway, those sessions provided fertile ground for my imagination late at night, lying in bed, particularly after a fruitless search for carnal activities.

Imagination provided my only glimpses under Mom's healthy white blouse, or the thrill of inserting my hand under her skirt, or the sensuous feel of her long, supple fingers caressing the length of my vibrating shaft, a silky touch that carried me to bliss even through the harsh yanking of my own hand. I'm sure the press of Mom's leg and brush of her breast were unintentional, as were the brief displays of her thighs when she adjusted her skirt to get more comfortable on the bench, or her habit of touching my arm with her soft fingers whenever she wanted to make a point, all of which happened often that year but never before. If it was intentional, in order to keep me interested in the piano, it worked.

After graduation, and my application to a music program in college, Mom wasn't as pushy about keeping up with the piano. I was busy with my summer job and Mom seemed too tired to practice since she had more than the usual number of students whose parents pushed for summer remedial classes. It wasn't until the end of the summer, just before I left for college, that Mom left me with a memory that furnished my imagination for the next four months.

Mom and Dad were going out for a big get together. As usual, after some significant preparations, Mom was ready to go but Dad's efforts weren't up to snuff so she sent him upstairs to do a proper job. Exasperated, she turned to me, took my hand, and led me to the piano.

"Oh, that man," she sighed. "Let's play something to wash my stress away."

I sat down at the near end of the bench while Mom walked around to the other end. She had difficulty sitting in her tight dress. Pinching the material between her fingers, she barely won a struggle to tug it higher so she could sit down. But she eventually won and the victory pleased me as I watched the hem climb above Mom's knees and higher, inch by inch, until the top of her nylons were exposed.

After Mom sat down she began shuffling through the music books leaning against the piano in front of us. My eyes, however, were aimed between her exposed thighs, following the black straps that clipped onto the wide band of thicker nylon, nestled against the softest flesh I had ever seen, and disappeared into the darkness of Mom's dress.

Mom couldn't seem to find the right music to relieve the stress my father had created and flipped back and forth through several books before she finally found a suitable piece. I didn't mind. I could have looked at the straps holding up her nylons or, more accurately, the inner sanctity of her thighs, forever.

"Pay attention, John," Mom chided, readying her hands on the keys. I did the same, though I was loathe to tear my eyes from between her legs. "Do you remember this one?" she asked.

I nodded, and Mom began to play. We had to begin twice because I fumbled the keys but Mom was patient, even smiling while waiting for me to start again.

It was a familiar piece, a duet I knew by heart and which required little effort on my part, just to play along to Mom's lead. My eyes soon strayed beneath the keyboard to appreciate the narrow gap between Mom's legs which briefly widened whenever her foot was applied to one of the pedals. I thanked the stars that Mom was playing more energetically than usual, lifting her foot high off the pedal rather than slipping it on and off, probably because she was wearing high heels. This minor difference, amplified many times, caused her dress to slip higher on her thigh whenever her knee lifted. Near the end, when Mom was playing with particular enthusiasm, a dark strip poked through from underneath her dress. Her panties.

Even in the dim light, the puffiness of this narrow strip created the distinct impression that it yearned to be free of constraint. Thankfully, the song ended or I would have flubbed even my simple role. Mom wound up with a flourish and turned to face me. I tore my eyes away to look into her flushed face.

"That was wonderful, darling!" she exclaimed, her usual cheerful self reclaimed.

I nodded rather than speaking so I could look at her legs, now closed but still bare almost to the very top.

"Well, I'd better go check on your father," Mom's sigh seemed to bring her back to earth. She spun around the end of the bench and I turned to get up on my side.

"Damn!" Mom yelled.

Her outburst caused me to wheel around. She was sitting with her back to me, looking down at her feet. She twisted further around, still facing at a slight angle away from me, and tried to lift her right foot onto her left knee so she could look at the bottom of her shoe, but she couldn't quite get it there because of her tight dress.

"Look at my shoe for me, Jon," Mom said, dropping her foot and using the other to help pull herself around to face me more directly. "See if the heel's broken."

I knelt down in front of Mom, taking the foot she lifted toward me, and looked at the shoe. But my eyes immediately slid up to Mom's knees and beyond when I realized that her legs were open and she had pulled her dress very high so she was free to lift her leg. My hand slid under the sole of her shoe and my thumb slipped between the shoe and the arch of her foot, but my gaze was aimed directly at the black panties I could now see without any problems at all.

Mom's dress was higher, her legs wider, and the light no longer dim. The panties, I could see, were solid in some parts and lacily revealing in others. There was definitely a prominent protrusion in the front which I now observed to have a more complicated structure than I was able to see under the keyboard. Two ridges rose on each side to form cliffs that faced each other across a narrow chasm. I leaned closer to Mom so the direction of my gaze wouldn't be so obvious and also to block my swelling cock which was throbbing in my jeans.

"See if the heel's broken, Jon," Mom said, seeing that I was holding her shoe sole downward when I should have been twisting it up to look underneath.

I gripped Mom's leg just below the knee and urged it outward as I gently twisted her foot up to examine the heel of her shoe. Two things happened then as Mom's legs widened even further. First, her panties were stretched more tightly, pulling away from her legs and allowing a little tuft of hair to appear in the gaps on each side. Second, the chasm widened, depicting the external structure of her pussy more distinctively. A familiar tingle graced the head of my cock, the one that signaled an impending eruption.

"Is it broken?" Mom asked, jarring my eyes back to the shoe.

I bent Mom's foot back toward her so she could see for herself, holding her knee steady while the gap between her heel and her thigh narrowed. Mom's eyes were drawn to her shoe and mine returned to her panties, following a line of sight along the narrow spike of her heel as it pointed directly toward my target.

Mom hunched over to look at her shoe, legs widening even more and thrusting her pubes hard against the lacy panties. It was too much. I began spurting in my jeans. I tried to hide my jerky movements by wiggling Mom's heel to demonstrate its adhesive strength but I knew no amount of shaking would cover the wet blotch that would soon stain my pants. I was wondering how to escape the situation when I heard my father's footsteps at the top of the stairs.

"I'm ready," Dad called, starting his descent.

Mom stood, rapidly smoothing her dress over her legs and wiggling her foot firmly into place in her shoe. She tousled my hair as I remained crouched before her, leaning over my offending crotch.

"Play a nice tune for us while we leave, Jon."

I crawled up onto the bench and quickly tapped out a jolly tune, thankful for the chance to hide my incriminating damp crotch under the keyboard. I nodded at my parents when they said goodbye. Mother told me not to stay up too late, a habit she couldn't shake even though I was leaving for college in a matter of days.

The Hook

Home for the Christmas holidays. I was eager to show off the new skills I had learned but Mom never joined me at the piano except to stand behind me while I played. My hopes for a replay of summer's end, especially another 'broken' heel incident, dwindled with each passing day. Christmas day passed uneventfully and we were approaching the last day of the year when Mom asked me if I would play a piece or two at the New Year's Eve party my parents were hosting that night.

"Sure, what would you like to hear?"

"Play a few pieces and I'll pick," Mom said, more cheery than she'd been all holiday.

I sat down and began to play. On the second song, Mom laid her hand on my shoulder. At the end of the song, she slipped down onto the bench beside me, eagerly awaiting my next number. I played my heart out for the third piece and my chest tightened when Mom exclaimed her pleasure when I finished.

"That was, how do you say it nowadays? Awesome," Mom enthused, turning slightly toward me.

"Thanks, Mom. I'm learning a lot at college," I said, proudly.

"That wasn't just learning, that was raw talent," Mom beamed.

I blushed and looked down.

"You must do a recital at Church."

I looked up quickly. This wasn't what I was hoping to achieve. "Mom, ..."

"Oh, but you must. Please, Jon."

I shook my head. "Mom, you know I ..."

"It would mean so much to me," Mom interrupted, her voice softening.

The change in her voice triggered an immediate feeling within me. I lowered my head to avoid her eyes, fearing my sudden carnal thoughts could be easily read, and was surprised to see the fingers of Mom's right hand scratching her skirt, slowly tugging it up from her knees. I went rigid, eyes fixed on Mom's thighs.

"It would be so wonderful to see you up there in front of everyone," Mom purred.

Mom's hand, now filled with her bunched up skirt, withdrew up her leg, dragging her skirt toward her hip. Her left knee moved but was blocked by the bench. Then, just as her hand stopped, Mom's right knee moved away, spreading her legs and drawing her skirt even higher. Suddenly, light reflected off a narrow expanse of white material, starkly outlined against the dark material of Mom's skirt.

"You will, won't you?" Mom asked, her voice still soft but not as smooth as before.

"I'm going back to school in a few days."

"Oh, but it won't be until summer. You can do it then, can't you?"

My voice caught in my throat but I nodded and managed to croak, "Yes, of course. If that's what you want, Mom."

"It is," Mom whispered, though we were the only ones home.

And with that, her hips pushed forward and her pubes strained against the cotton material that, though they didn't reveal as much as the lacy, black ones months before, still disclosed much, and my mind filled in the rest.

"You make me so happy, Jon," Mom's voice returned closer to normal but in a throatier version.

"But at the end of the summer, right?" I said.

Mom's brow furrowed. "The end?"

"Yes, we'll need to practice," I said.

"Practice? We?"

"Yes," I said, my confidence rising. "I want to do a duet, with you."

"Oh, Jon. I couldn't play with you, not the way you're playing now."

"Sure you can. You just need to practice."

"No. I'd look like a fool."

"Bull," I said, the closest thing to a swear word I could use in front of my mom. Mom's eyes widened, realizing that I must feel strongly if I used a word like that in her presence.

"But Jon ...,"

"I want to play, with you, Mom." I held my finger to her lips to silence further protest. "I need you to be up there with me," I pleaded, "the two of us, together."

Mom looked deep into my eyes and I held firm. She must have been satisfied because she suddenly smiled sweetly and agreed, "Alright, Jon. The two of us will put on a show, a mother and son duet."

She leaned forward to kiss me. Surprised, I actually pulled back and Mom's lips landed on my cheek, as intended, but caught the corner of my mouth. Her face flushed slightly when she pulled back, indicating she was aware of the miscue. On impulse, I followed her retreat and kissed her back, my mouth partly on her mouth, as if in retribution. When I pulled away, I was surprised to find my hand had found her waist during the short duration of our caress and awkwardly pulled it away. My mind flooded with the awareness of how firm her waist was and a strange excitement about how sharply it flared out to her hips.

I cast my eyes down for a final look at Mom's panties and the lovely triangle they formed with her thighs, patted her bare knee, and said, "You'd better let me practice now if I'm not to play the fool tonight, then."

I played rather well that night and was the hit of the party. At midnight, several of the women, somewhat tipsy from the evening's consumption and loud merriment, showed me their appreciation under the mistletoe hung from every door jamb in the house. Unfortunately, there were only two that I really didn't mind kissing and only one of them kissed like she didn't mind if anyone was looking. I was surprised by these church-going women who, under the cover of darkness and a couple of drinks, were eager to provide a taste of what they had promised to someone else.

After everyone had left and Dad had stumbled upstairs, I stayed to help Mom tidy up so there wasn't such a big cleanup job the next morning. Mom was just leaving the kitchen, and I was bringing the last two glasses from the living room, when we met in the doorway. Mom took the glasses from my hand and placed them on the counter beside her instead of taking them in to the sink.

"That's enough for tonight. Thanks for your help, Jon."

I nodded.

"You played wonderfully tonight. Everyone really enjoyed themselves," Mom said. After a short pause, she added, "I noticed Mrs. Erickson was particularly pleased," referring to the good looking woman that trapped me under the mistletoe with a particularly enthusiastic embrace.

Although she was joking, I sensed displeasure. I looked up to the top of the doorway to avoid her eyes but they followed mine and we both latched onto the mistletoe that still hung there. I reached around to the light switch and flicked it down, throwing the kitchen into darkness. Mom's upturned face reflected the dim light of the single lamp lighting the living room behind me. I circled her waist with my arm and lowered my face to hers.

"Happy New Year, Mom," I whispered, covering her lips with my mouth before she could react.

Mom didn't resist me. In fact, she actually pressed against me as earnestly as Mrs. Erickson had, squashing her breasts against my chest and standing on her toes to meet my lips as they moved on hers. It was neither a short nor a long kiss and though Mom ended it, she was breathing hard when she pulled away. Both of us seemed awkward after my spontaneous act.

"Whew, I guess it's going to be quite a year," Mom cried, turning her head to the side to avoid my eyes, unnecessarily, given I was similarly looking around.

Mom stepped around me and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom, and husband.

A few days later, I left for school.

The Hot Summer Begins

The summer started slowly. After my initial welcome home and an official barbecue party with family and old friends, I settled into my summer job and lazy weekends hanging out with old friends, few of whom were still around. Many had gone elsewhere for summer work since not many jobs were available in our small town, and some of those who remained had changed and it just wasn't the same hanging out with them anymore. So I began spending more and more of my evenings and weekends at home.

It was easily three weeks before Mom brought up the promised recital. I hadn't forgotten it, I just didn't know how to bring it up. Reacting on gut instinct, I decided it would be better if Mom first broached the topic. On a quiet Wednesday evening, after she finished a book and Dad wasn't keen on talking since he was in the middle of his own who-dun-it, I did just that.

"So, when are you going to start practicing for the recital?" Mom just came right out with it.

I looked up, feigning confusion. "Recital?" I asked.

Mom threw a couch pillow at me. "Don't be a brat. You know darned well you promised me last Christmas that you would play for the Church."

"The Church?" I mused.

Another pillow. "Father!" Mom cried.

Dad looked up, first at Mom, then me, then back to Mom, then back into his book. "A duet, I believe, if my memory serves me right," he said.

Mom and I looked at each other, mouths open, then at Dad, shocked by this indisputable evidence that he was actually aware of what happened around him.

"You'd both better get to it, I imagine, and leave a man to read in peace," he said, nose still buried between the pages.

Mom and I looked at each other again and she crooked her head at the piano in the next room. I got up and led the way, sitting a little to one side to leave room for my mother. I waited for her to pick something to play, thinking about how fortunate it was that Mom was wearing a light and breezy summer dress and not the shorts or pants she typically gardened in during the summer. In fact, I realized now that I thought about it, she had been wearing dresses almost every day since I got home.

Mom sat down, sweeping the loose material of her dress under herself and then smoothing the topside over her thighs.

"You pick something," Mom said, seeing that I was waiting for her to choose.

"Alright," I replied, thumbing through the books, looking for something that wasn't designed as a duet, something that would put the onus on one player, Mom, leaving me with little to do. I was keen with anticipation, my body tingling so much, it was hard to breathe.

"This isn't a duet," Mom complained about my choice.

"It can be played like one," I assured her.

"But which parts should I play?"

"You play the whole thing, and I'll chime in."

Mom shrugged and began to play. I slipped in with little bits here and there, then more and more frequently with longer and longer parts. I ad-libbed the whole thing, thinking it up on the fly, enjoying the chance to put the long hours of improvizing with fellow music students into practice. Mom was really worked up. Not just her face but her whole body showed how delighted she was with this new experience. She sweated joy, and it was very endearing and quite infectious.


We finished with a resounding flourish and Mom threw up her hands and then turned to hug me.

"That was fantastic!" she cried. "Oh, this is going to be so great, everyone will be bowled over." Mom clapped her hands, turning to the living room where Dad's feet were just visible, propped up on the Lazy boy chair tucked out of our sight in the corner. "Drew, did you hear that? Wasn't it incredible?"

Dad's head struggled into view, peeking around the wide entrance into the living room across the hallway and into the music room.

"What's that?"

"Our first duet," Mom said. "Wasn't it beautiful?"

"Oh yes, quite," Dad replied, settling back into his chair. "Remarkable."

Mom turned back toward me. "Let's do it again," she said, settling her feet near the pedals and smoothing her skirt down but spreading her hands sideways this time, over her thighs rather than down to her knees, leaving the hem a few inches above her knees where it had settled on her agile legs as she played. "Ready?" she asked, starting before waiting for my answer.

I wasn't sure if I could remember my ad-libs but they actually came easily, leaving me lots of time to admire Mom. All of her, not just her shaking breasts and legs, but the way she switched from laughter to concentration, the arc of her neck, the delicate way she held her hands over the keyboard, and the softness of her arms. A warm glow enveloped me as I watched her play.

Mom showed as much joy the second time as she did the first, but this time she shared it all with me and didn't bother calling Dad.

"Do you want to do another piece?" I asked.

Mom nodded eagerly, then said, "But I'm playing so much and you're the one everyone wants to see."

"I'll find pieces we can both play but let's start with ones mostly by you."

Mom nodded, understanding that she needed practice more than I.

"But we'll be even in the end," I assured her.

"Oh, Jon. I don't know if I can," Mom seemed suddenly nervous.

"Don't worry. By the end of the summer, people won't be able to tell who's playing which parts."

Mom didn't look convinced.

"Trust me?" I asked.

Mom's face relaxed into a smile, "Always."

"Ok. This next piece needs a lot of footwork. What kind of shoes are you wearing?"

I dropped my hand to the side of Mom's knee and pried it toward her, looking down at her feet. Mom reacted by lifting her knee high to show me her feet, wonderfully letting her loose skirt slide high enough to show the thickening of her leg under her thigh.

"Hmmm, maybe you should play barefoot," I suggested.

Mom slipped her shoes off and placed her toes on the pedals, arching her feet with her heels held high, further slipping her dress up her legs. I nodded my approval.

That song was more difficult and we had to stop and start many times. But it was fun. Every time we stopped, Mom patted my thigh with her left hand as a kind of 'good work' signal. When we moved onto a third piece, I suggested that we each play with one hand.

At first, I let my right hand hang awkwardly between us but, with the need to sometimes reach across Mom, I curled it around her waist, holding onto her hip. Mom let her idle hand rest on my thigh and took to squeezing my leg instead of patting it when we completed a particularly successful section. In response, I pulled her toward me, enabling my hand to wrap farther around her waist, onto to her stomach just below her breast. I was in heaven.

We practiced that piece a lot, working out who should play what. At first we each played only the keys nearest us but it sounded better when we both played the full board, mostly on our own side but sometimes having to reach across in front of the other. This wasn't a problem for Mom but I found myself necessarily grazing the front and underside of her left breast quite often, an action Mom ignored even when my hand around her waist seemed to pull her forward onto my scraping arm.

For her part, Mom's reaching arm never touched my chest, I lacking the appropriate contact points, but the hand on my thigh slipped between my legs on several occasions and, eventually, Mom just left it there, her palm constantly resting near my groin and her fingers trailing down between my jeans. I was always aware of its presence, no matter now interesting the tune.

We played for a long time, barely pausing between pieces. I copied Mom and kept my idle hand on her left thigh instead of around her waist and had similarly managed to let it slip between her legs. However, unlike hers, mine rested on bare leg, not jeans. The first time I put my hand down, Mom's leg was protected by the thin material of her colorful summer dress, but I gradually worked it back each time I lifted and replaced my hand. As with my scraping arm, Mom seemed to be totally unaware.

I was deeper in heaven. It was one thing to look between my mother's legs, but to touch them, now that was real heaven. In my mind, I pictured the panties my hand was in such close proximity to. I wondered what color she was wearing. Were they yellow or red to match the colors on her dress, or simply plain white?

We stopped for a longer respite to pick a new piece to play, each of us providing one hand to hold the books, as if our other one, idle through the music, wasn't useful for any task. They remained where they were, each loosely gripping a thigh.

As we talked about one candidate piece, Mom's idle hand suddenly became less placid, her fingers idly scratching the inside of my jeans. I don't think it was intentional. I think it just happened without thought as she concentrated on what she was thinking. But my response was deliberate. Tentatively, I let my index finger, the one farthest from her panties, move the tiniest bit and, when there was no response, a little more. Soon, I was stroking the inside of Mom's thigh, not as much as she was and keeping my palm rigidly still, but scratching all the same.

Now, here's the thing. I knew Mom was aware of my shenanigans. She gave absolutely no indication that she was, but I knew, I could sense it. And she let it happen!

We had just settled on which piece to do next and had started talking about how to play it, a moment when Mom was really concentrating, when I let my little finger stroke her leg too. I knew immediately that Mom was aware, despite her concentration, by a downward flash of her eye, even though her head didn't move and her speech never faltered.

This was a clear transgression. This was no friendly pat, or flirtatious scratch. This was a definite caress no more than two inches from her panties on the softest flesh her body possessed. There was no mistaking its intent. Twice more Mom's eye flickered but my pinky kept stroking, slow and gentle, but persistent.

We kept discussing the piece. Admittedly, I prolonged the discussion with needless queries for clarification, but Mom didn't seemed annoyed. She calmly explained how she thought things should go, not once glancing down or batting her eye, and the whole time my pinky was scraping up and down near her puss.

"Are you ready?" Mom finally breathed.

"Yeah," I croaked.

We began. Incredibly, we played that entire piece without stopping, not even once. And not just because we didn't want to. We didn't make a mistake through the entire piece, not a single one. It was perfect.

When it was over, we both slumped back, in awe of ourselves, each with a hand on the keys and one between the other's legs, both drawn more tightly back than when we had started. I could now feel the edge of Mom's hand along the front of my crotch, a good inch and a half closer than when she had started playing. There was no doubt she was aware of how hard I was.

My hand hadn't slipped so close to Mom's center but my stroking pinky was in full contact with the edge of her panties, slowly scraping up and down by her leg hole, its little knuckle rubbing beside the ridge on my side. I was wondering how long I could get away with this, and how we could extricate ourselves while pretending nothing had happened, when the solution arrived.

Father's Lazy Boy sprung loudly as he levered his chair closed. As he stood and faced us, our hands rapidly jerked from between each other's legs and Mom quickly smoothed her dress down to her knees.

"Done for the night?" Dad asked.

"Mmm, yes, I think so," Mom replied, turning to look at me for confirmation, her face red.

"Just one more little ditty, Dad," I said, pointing at some music for Mom to look at with her red face.

Dad turned toward the stairs. "Well, I'm done," he said.

As his footsteps dwindled, Mom said, "I'd better go to bed, too," but she didn't make a move to leave.

"That went really well," I said, "but we should practice a lot if we're going to do it in front of people."

"When Dad's home," Mom said, looking down.

"Why?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"Because he likes to listen, too" Mom replied. With that, she twisted away and ran up the stairs after my father, not giving me a goodnight kiss for maybe the first time in my life.

Tandem Play

I didn't get an opportunity to practice with Mom again until Saturday night. I don't know if she was avoiding me or what but she was busy every evening and would have been on Saturday too except Dad was sick and opted out of their regular dinner date. Mom made Dad something bland for dinner and spread a comforter over him after he settled back in his Lazy Boy, his favorite spot. She handed Dad the book he was currently reading but he closed his eyes and turned his head to the side.

Mom and I both sat on the couch, at opposite ends, reading. I glanced at Mom often but she concentrated on her book. She was wearing a plain summer dress, a dull, checkered gray with thin white lines, not near as bright and cheery as the one she'd worn the last time we played. The top was cut square with heavy straps that arched over her shoulders to fasten to the front with big buttons. The only redeeming feature of the dress, well two, were the openness of the bodice which, designed for the summer heat, left ample room for body-heated air to escape, leaving Mom's upper assets on display. The second redeeming feature was the lightness of the material; it clung to Mom's hips and legs when she moved and did little to conceal the shape of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist, and the flare of her hips.

Mom's elbow was leaning on the arm of the couch, distributing her weight on her right thigh so she could tuck her feet up beside her. Strangely, I noticed that Mom's feet were clean on the bottom even though her feet were bare. I was content to simply look at her.

Dad's sudden snore jarred me from my thoughts. I got up and held my hand out to Mom.

"Come on, it's time to practice," I said in response to her questioning eyes.

Mom shook her head, returning to her book.

I tugged Mom's hand. "Come on Mom. Don't you want the recital to go well?"

That got her attention. She looked up sharply, concern showing on her face. "Yes."

"Then you have to work for it," I said, pulling her arm hard enough that she had to follow.

Something about her inertia felt magically feminine. I don't know why and I have no idea how I could sense that, but I did. Mom resisted until I had her pulled forward.

"Wait," she said, struggling to get her feet onto the floor.

As soon as she did, I renewed my effort to pull her up, finally succeeding, but she resisted all the way even though both she and I knew she was going to come. She even resisted as I pulled her toward the piano, feet dragging, almost stumbling. It made me more excited to know she didn't really want to but was coming anyway. I don't have an explanation for that, either.

As we passed in front of Dad, Mom whispered, "We'll wake Dad."

"No we won't. Anyway, he loves to hear us play."

Mom couldn't argue with that but appeared ready to. Just then, Dad spoke.

"Play something long and slow for me." He didn't even open his eyes or give any other indication that he was awake.

Startled, both Mom and I said, "Sure," at the same time.

Mom stopped by the piano to slip her feet into her slippers that were tucked beneath the bench and I realized then that she had been practicing on her own when I wasn't home. She twisted around and sat on the end of the bench, slumped forward in the demeanor of a child who didn't want to play, like me years ago when I wanted to play outside but had to do my lessons with my Mom.

"It won't hurt. It'll be over before you know it and one day you'll thank me for making you do this," I parroted the exact words Mom had repeated to me many, many times.

Mom laughed but remained slumped in mock resistance. I knelt before her, lifted her foot and, slipping one hand behind her ankle, pulled her slipper off her foot. I repeated this with the other foot and then swung her legs around the bench to face the piano.

"Why don't I pick something first," I suggested sitting on the bench beside Mom.

I settled on a piece and had to pick up Mom's listless hands to place them on the keyboard. She was being a real bugger about this. I began playing. Mom didn't. I kept playing and slowly, she joined in. Halfway through, she was playing with as much joy as I.

I stuck to playing and didn't make any attempts to touch Mom inappropriately. We played several pieces before I suggested, loud enough for Dad to hear, that it was time to play the long piece we had promised Dad. I turned to an especially long and gentle piece.

"You start," I said.

Halfway down the page, I still hadn't joined in but Mom was into it now, swaying with the music. As Mom switched to the top of the next page, I dropped my hand and 'straightened' her skirt, managing to pull the dull, gray dress halfway up her thighs. Mom paid no attention.

At the bottom of the page, I leaned close to Mom and turned the page for her, slipping my arm around her waist. Mom still paid no attention, even when my hand tugged her closer to me and massaged the warm flesh underneath the thin dress. I straightened in my khaki shorts, beginning to fill them as a man should.

As the song wore on, I played a few keys with my left hand, but only enough to give the impression that I was involved. I was far more interested in the play being executed by my other hand which was sliding up and down Mom's narrow waist from the swell of her hip to the bulging bottom of her right breast.

My thumb and index finger were squeezing between the heaviness of Mom's breast and her ribs. After I turned the page again, I let my hand move outward once it had squeezed in, pushing and lifting her breast away from her chest before letting it drop as I continued brushing her waist down to her hip. I had done this maybe a dozen times before Mom acknowledged, indirectly, what I was doing.

"Come on, Jon. Put more effort into it, for your father," Mom whispered.

At that point, my hand just happened to be squeezed under Mom's breast ready to push it out. I nodded and started to slide my hand out but then twisted it up and cupped the bottom of her breast. At the same time, I began to play with my left hand, leaving my right to cup Mom's breast.

Mom was pleased to see me start playing but her pleasure was countered by the presence of my impertinent hand. Or was it? Though clearly aware, Mom didn't tell me to stop, or twist her torso away as a signal to remove my hand. I realized then that Mom was allowing me a certain latitude in return for doing what she wanted.

When I thought about it, she had always been lenient with me when there was something she wanted me to do, and she applied the same behavior toward my father. I could remember one occasion when Mom wanted something my father didn't want to do but later did. I had woken that night to the sound of intense sex and, lying on my stomach, I orgasmed into my cupped hands. I never fell asleep after that on nights my parents argued, at least those when it was my father resisting doing something for my mother. I waited until the inevitable sounds of great sex. Long sex. Sex that sounded like it was just the kind my father really wanted but seldom got.

I squeezed Mom's breast, sending a signal that this was no accident. Turning to the last two pages of notes, I dropped my hand below the keyboard to rest it on Mom's thigh. As Mom played, pointedly staring at the notes, I slipped my hand under the dull, gray dress to the greet the excitement of the warm flesh underneath. Mom closed her legs but when I whispered in her ear that she was playing so well that I was sure the recital would be a huge success, she relaxed and they opened again, enough for me to worm my fingers between and scratch the flesh barely an inch from her panties. I was impressed how Mom managed to stay in time and didn't rush to finish. She was a true professional and ignored the presence of my hands to the very end.

As soon as the song ended, I got up and went into the living room. Dad was lying with his eyes closed but opened them when I spoke.

"How was that Dad?"

"That was great, son. Fantastic," Dad exclaimed enthusiastically, but I had the sense that he hadn't really heard much of it, that he had dozed off.

"We're going to do something really different now, Dad, a duet where we both play the whole keyboard, with both hands, rather than just our own side."

"Really?" Dad asked, almost rhetorically. "I'd like to hear that."

I returned to the piano. Mom was sitting off the end of the bench again, eyeing me with a questioning look, wondering what on earth I was talking about. She hadn't bothered to pull her dress down and looked tremendously sexy sitting there with most of her thighs showing, though her knees were demurely held together, and her dark brown, full-bodied, wavy hair in disarray. I strode around her and pulled a book out that I had tucked behind the others that afternoon as Mom swiveled to face the piano.

I opened the book to the piece I wanted to play and leaned over Mom's left shoulder, my face next to hers as she leaned forward to look. As Mom examined the piece, I pulled on the bench seat until Mom partially lifted her weight, allowing me to drag it almost a foot from the piano. Mom's attention was on the music. When I pushed on her lower back she silently obliged by shifting forward until she was sitting near the edge of the seat. She noticed what I was doing when I sat behind her, my legs straddling hers.

"What are you doing?" Mom asked, emphasizing 'are', her tone indicating she thought I was up to some kind of prank.

"This piece has to be played by one pianist with four hands, so I have to sit behind and reach around you."

"Oh. So that's why there's two sets of notes through the piece?" Mom asked, turning her head partly toward me. I was so close, her ear contacted my mouth.

"Yes. It's a hard piece. It'll take a lot of practice," I whispered, my lips grazing Mom's ear.

Mom nodded. "A lot of practice," she repeated what I had said.

"Yes. Your part is in red, mine is in green."

Mom nodded looking back at the music.

"I won't play for the first few times. Just get used to me sitting behind you while you play."

Mom nodded again. "Behind me," she whispered.

"That's right," I said. I placed my hands on Mom's waist, just above her hips. "OK, let's go."

Mom placed her hands on the keyboard and began playing. I held her waist but didn't move except to flip the page for her. Although at first tense playing in this odd configuration, she relaxed soon after I turned the first page. The music intensified in this section, growing slowly, building to an emotional high that would soon subside near the end, sliding into a long lilting rhythm.

As the notes betrayed their ascending trend, I slipped my hands up to cup the bottoms of Mom's breasts, taking just a little of their weight. In response to her sharp intake of breath, I whispered, "That's it. Feed on the emotion, throw it back to the audience."


Stiff, and playing with her breath caught in her throat, Mom gradually conquered the tension, her body relaxing even though her breath was still coming fast. Slowly, I rubbed my closed fingers and palms under her breasts, wishing she hadn't worn a bra but even so still barely able to retain control of my own breathing. Throughout the rise, I continued to gently rub the bottom swell of her breasts, never squeezing, never gripping, just rubbing the soft underside of her tits, until the crescendo was breached and the music slowly rolled down to the gentle lap of continuous, evening waves. I turned the page and returned my hands to Mom's waist, matching the slow return of my breathing with hers, feeling the music through her.

It wasn't long before the music began to rise again. My hands massaged Mom's waist, fingers stretching around so far they almost met over her belly. I could sense Mom's anticipation that I was about to raise my hands to grasp her breasts directly above. Her expectation was so intense I could physically feel it in her muscles even as she continued to play with a sensitivity I'd never heard from her before.

But my hands didn't rise. When Mom reached the same point up the musical slope where I had first cupped her breasts, I moved my hands back and then downward instead, slowly scraping over her hips to make sure she could feel my progress. Down I ventured, onto the top of her thighs, dragging her dress toward her knees, until my hands were far enough they could slip between her legs.

With exaggerated movements of my fingers, I clawed the dull, gray material of the dress up until it was all bunched in my hands. After pausing for a moment, I released the dress and slipped my hands underneath, opening and stretching my fingers to clasp Mom's inner thighs, palm down on each leg. Slowly, in time with the music, I moved my hands in until they bracketed Mom's panties. Then, after another brief pause, I began pressing in, squeezing her panties between the edges of my two hands, puffing them out, like two hamburger patties being forced out of a bun but unable to escape, prevented by the thin wall of her panties.

Faster and faster I squeezed as the music rose but gently, always gently, and never moving my hands onto the panties, just pressing from the side to squeeze Mom's pubes together, then relaxing, again and again and again. I couldn't help humping the fleshy part at the back of Mom's dress. I tried to stop myself but I just couldn't. I twisted my hips in small thrusts, in tandem with my squeezing hands, faster and faster, with the music, always with the music, and then ...

Mom cried out.

"Ahhhhhhhooohhhhhhh."

A single cry and then the music stopped, echoing throughout the room as Mom's cry subsided, as my hips stopped moving and my seepage waned, until Mom stopped quivering between my hands.

Soon, it was quiet except for the ragged sound of our breathing. Slowly, that returned to normal. Reluctantly, I climbed off the bench, knowing I had to go. I kissed Mom's neck, said goodnight, and turned to walk up the stairs behind me, knowing I had to escape before my father came in and my wet pants betrayed me. I heard mom belatedly mumble when I was halfway up the staircase.

"Goodnight, Jon."

Over the Edge

The next morning, I lay in bed wondering if last night had been a dream, but knowing it wasn't. I hadn't faced Mom at the end but I had to now. I would be expected at breakfast before we all left for Church.

My apprehension was ill-founded. Mom behaved as if everything was normal. I thought it was just an act that would soon fray under its own tension, but it didn't. Somehow, Mom really acted as if last night hadn't changed our lives like I thought it had. The entire day played out like any other Sunday, through Church, the afternoon and even supper. Dad was feeling better but worsened after dinner and repaired to his Lazy Boy, snuggling under the comforter Mom draped over him before walking to the couch and taking my hand. After tugging me to my feet, Mom pulled me across the floor.

"You don't mind if I drag your company away do you Father?" Mom asked.

"Not at all," Dad looked up from his book, smiling. "Do what you want with him," he waved with his free hand.

In the piano room, Mom pushed me toward the piano. "Get the music ready. I'll be right down."

I opened the book to our piece and sat down after running to the living room to grab one of the flatter, silky pillows to place on the bench. Mom returned a moment later. There was something different but I couldn't see what it was. Had she washed her face, freshened her lipstick? I couldn't tell but something was different.

Mom stopped by the bench and slipped her slippers from her feet. The muscles in her calves tensed prettily and my breath caught when she looked at the pillow placed mostly on but partly off the front of the bench.

"Is that for me?" Mom asked.

"Yes," I nodded.

"Thank you," Mom said, hooking the top of her toes around the ankle of her other foot and sliding them up her calf. "Are you ready to play?" she asked, looking down at the bench, already pulled away from the piano.

I nodded again, taken aback by Mom's sudden assertion of control. She dropped her hands to her side and pulled her summery, dark green dress with a loosely pleated skirt up, baring half her thighs as she stepped between the bench and the piano before sitting down on the pillow. Mom turned to look over her shoulder.

"Sit and play, Jon," she said, before turning back to the piano.

I walked towards her in my summer shorts, and swung my barefooted legs over the bench one at a time to seat myself firmly behind her, immediately noting the greater expanse of fleshy behind available now that Mom was sitting on a pillow, as I had planned. Mom put her hands on the keyboard, ready to play, then turned her head as if waiting.

"Go ahead," I said.

Mom didn't move. I repeated myself but she still didn't budge.

I raised my hands and placed them on Mom's hips. Immediately, she faced the piano and began to play. I moved my hands up and down her waist, enjoying the swell of flesh out to her hips and pushing further around to splay my fingers across her tummy. I could feel the large indent that formed Mom's navel and wished I could lay my bare hands on it, imagining teeny blond hairs, though Mom was a brunette, running from there over her soft belly until they thickened into the brown bush covering her pussy. I knew her pussy hair was brown because I'd seen it poking out the leg of her panties.

Mom continued playing as if that was all we were doing, playing the piano, despite the extent of my roaming hands. It was some time before I moved my hands up to cup Mom's breasts and received a small shock. Her breasts were much softer and I could feel their shape better than before. Mom was not wearing a bra!

I could only see the side of Mom's face but it seemed to me that the corner of her mouth was definitely turned up into a smile. I couldn't be sure because it disappeared quickly and then I wondered if I had imagined it. Real or not, Mom was obviously not bothered by me flagrantly caressing the bottom of both her breasts. If there was any doubt about her allowing this transgression, it disappeared when Mom turned the page herself. I had forgotten all about it.

Encouraged, I formed my hands completely around her tits and began a gentle, squeezing massage, like I was handling two erotically shaped water balloons that required delicate care lest they break. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her playing, I laid my head sideways on Mom's back and continued my loving embrace. When I felt Mom's arm lift to turn the page again, I slipped both hands up to take a firmer grip of each breast, my fingers circling around those incredible little extensions I had only fondled in my dreams. Now, with a simple loosening of my grip, my fingers slid up to close around Mom's wonderous nipples.

Fuck. This was so great. I hunched my boner into the fleshiness of Mom's ass as I lightly pinched and rolled her nipples through the dress. In my mind, I was holding Mom's bare tits and her nipples protruded beyond my circling fingers at least half an inch. I was going to come. It was swelling up and up. I couldn't stop it unless I chucked that image out of my mind, quit humping against her bottom, and let go of her tits. I couldn't do any of these, so my jiz welled up until it flooded out of my cock, like a tidal swell rather than a burst, washing it's stickiness into my shorts.

When my surroundings came back into focus I realized Mom had stopped playing. I was still holding her tits but my fingers were loose and no longer moving. I just held them as I recovered my breath, leaning against her back, blanketed by a wonderful feeling of bliss. I never wanted to let go but I realized I had to clean myself up. As mom started to play the piece over, I released her breasts and reluctantly pulled away.

"Is something the matter," Mom asked.

"No, I just have to go to the bathroom," I answered sheepishly.

"Hurry back," she said, her voice low and strangely urgent.

Upstairs, I pulled my shorts off and cleaned up the mess I had made, then tossed my shorts and underwear into the laundry hamper, still covered with my sticky cum. I walked half naked down the hall to my room, my swaying cock beginning to stiffen as I pictured myself feeling Mom up while she played the piano. Quickly, I removed my shirt and put on a pair of pajamas, and half ran back downstairs.

"That's a good idea," Mom said, turning to look at me when she heard me coming down the stairs.

I resumed my position straddling Mom's hips, the thought of Mom wearing a loose pair of pajamas with nothing on underneath greatly appealing to me and my stiffening companion.

"Maybe we should get changed before we start practicing tomorrow night," I suggested.

"That sounds like a good idea," Mom concurred. "Tomorrow night? Do you think we need to practice every night?"

"I think it would be a good idea," I said. "We want to perform our best, don't we?"

"Of course we do," Mom breathed.

I snuggled up to Mom and noticed that her dress, which had been smoothed under her bottom and legs, was bunched up behind her. She was no longer sitting on it. As Mom played, I gathered the dress in my hands carefully so she wouldn't feel me doing it. After a quick glance toward the living room, I cautiously raised the dress. I could see the waistband of Mom's panties, just barely, running across the pillow. They must have been small ones because that's as far up as they came. Mom's crack was barely visible, squished between the pulpy flesh of her upper cheeks.

I leaned forward to lay my head on Mom's back again. Could I get my hands under her dress? Of course. Could I get away with it? Of course. Why else would she have pulled it out from underneath herself?

I was hard again. Mom must be able to feel me. She must have felt me before, bulging against her ass, and definitely would have felt me humping against her, but this time it was unmistakably a hard cock poking into her. I slipped my hands under the material of Mom's dress but kept them on the bench, behind her. I checked the living room to make sure I could still see Dad's feet resting on the footrest of his Lazy Boy.

Omigod. I could see Dad's face, reflected in the glass doors of the bookcase against the far wall of the living room. Jeez! I froze, staring at Dad's reflection. Can he see me? No. Dad wasn't looking at the bookcase but if he did, he probably could see me. I couldn't see that well, but he appeared to be reading.

God, I'm lucky he didn't catch me feeling up Mom. Dad could have turned his head anytime and looked, and when he was dozing off with his head turned to the side, all he had to do was open his eyes and focus on the reflection in the glass. Fuck! How could I keep ravishing Mom now?

I was pondering this very question when my hands answered for me. They twisted, palms facing Mom, and pressed against the bare skin above the waistband of her panties.

Jesus, Jon. Don't, I cried to myself.

But it was no use. My hands pushed outward, sliding forward onto the outside of Mom's thighs. Her bare skin! Fuck, this was awesome. I pulled my hands back and pushed them forward again, then started sliding them back and forth. I stared at the reflection of my father, ready to jerk my hands away at the slightest sign of movement.

No, don't. Just keep them still unless he gets up. That made more sense. He probably couldn't see well enough in the reflection to see what I was doing. This was much safer, with my hands under Mom's dress. Surely he would have seen me had he looked up while I was groping Mom's tits half an hour ago. He would have seen my hands which had no business being on the front of Mom's dress, but this, he couldn't see this, I was sure of it. Not from there in a reflection.

Did Mom know about the bookcase? Is that why she lifted her dress? Did she get off on danger? Was it an invitation to continue? There was only one way to find out.

In the next foray forward over Mom's legs, I drew up short and then slipped my hands up onto her hips, paused, then slid them around onto her bare tummy, my fingertips dipping in to her large, sunken navel. Other than a minor flinch from exploring fingers, there was no response. Mom kept playing without the slightest change in her playing. I circled one fingertip around and around into Mom's navel, then moved my hands up into position below Mom's breasts.

I made the move, cupping the roundness of her tits, my fingers folding lovingly around their perfect curvature. My cock lurched in my pajamas. Quickly, I moved my fingers up to explore Mom's wonderful nipples, unable to resist flicking them up and down with my thumbs before adding a finger to pinch, roll and tug them. There was the briefest flicker in Mom's playing but she quickly recovered. Oh my fucking god. Her bare tits! I twisted my head and tried to chew Mom's shoulder blade through her dress. They felt better than I ever imagined. They were perfect. Perfect! Perfect!!

I moaned into Mom's back and began hunching against her again. The picture in my mind of Mom's chest was now in HDTV, not a blemish in sight. I groped them mercilessly, unable to control myself, pushing myself painfully into her butt. I had to do something before I broke my cock.

I was loathe to do it but do it I did. I let go of Mom's right tit and pulled my hand away, down and out of her dress. I grabbed my swollen prick, which had poked through the hole in the front of my pajamas, and used it to find Mom's ass crack. I pushed in and down until I felt the waistband of Mom's panties and them pushed my cock between it and Mom's ass, humping a couple of times to make sure it didn't come out. Quickly, I slipped my hand up to retrieve Mom's tit and nipple and started humping.

Through my legs I felt Mom's feet lift from the pedal and plant themselves higher against the front paneling of the piano. She was bracing herself to keep me from pushing her off the seat as I vigorously shoved my cock back and forth under her ass. I couldn't care less what anyone thought now. I needed to come on Mom's ass and nothing could stop me. Mom had stopped playing. I jerked my head to the bookcase reflection to see if Dad had noticed. He was still reading! Mom's hands were now braced against the keyboard as my humping increased in force.

I had to hurry. Dad probably thought we were between pieces, not paying enough attention to realize Mom had quit in the middle. I started hunching my hips furiously, desperate to finish, needing to cum, my cock sliding full length, pressed down onto the pillow by Mom's squeezing crack. The feel of her hot, rubbery flesh scraping moistly along the top of my bone was exquisite... too exquisite... I started to come.

Splash! Spurt, spurt, ohhhhh goodddd, this is ... great, ahhhh, yeah, unggnhhh, unnghhhh, yeah, yeaaahhhh.

I relaxed on Mom's back but kept my eyes on Dad's reflection. He was still reading. I watched him as my breathing returned to normal. Mom's feet dropped back to the floor and her hands relaxed on the keyboard but she didn't resume playing. I let go of her tits and pulled my hands from underneath her dress and pulled my hips back, my slippery cock sliding out of her panties. I tucked my dick back inside my pajamas and, as soon as I did, Mom lifted herself and swept her dress underneath before sitting back down. She had no sooner finished than Dad's head poked around the corner.

"Would you guys like some tea and cookies?"

"Uhhh, yeah. Thanks Dad."

He was up and turning the corner, heading for the kitchen. I stood up and looked down at myself to make sure I was presentable. I was. Mom stood and I followed her, then veered toward the stairs.

"No, no. Come here. I want to show you something."

Dad waved Mom into the kitchen. Mom complied and I started up the stairs.

"No. You too, Jon."

I checked myself to make sure I was presentable, then followed Mom into the kitchen.

"Try some of these," Dad said, beaming. He held out a bag from our local bakery, full of treats. "I could hardly wait until you finished to give you these," he said. "You've been practicing so hard."

You can say that again, I thought.

Mom took a pastry and took a small bite, quickly raising her other hand to catch the crumbs that spilled from her mouth.

"Thanks Drew. You shouldn't have," Mom mumbled.

"You too, Jon," Dad insisted.

I chose a butterhorn, my favorite, and took a large bite.

I couldn't help thinking how ludicrous this was, eating special pastry treats my Dad bought while he made us some tea, my cock still firm enough to slap against my leg, slick from my own cum, most of which was in Mom's panties, drying on her ass as she munched on the eclair her husband had just given her. God. I wished I could guarantee my father wouldn't turn around. I dearly wanted to lift Mom's dress and shove my cock back inside her panties.

Oh, no. That thought was a killer. My cock was stiffening, rising off my leg and bending up, against my pajamas, pushing them out. Quickly, I shuffled over to the kitchen table and sat down, pulling my chair in to hide myself. Mom noticed and did the same. I loved the surprised look on her face as my cum must have made its presence better known as her cheeks pressed down on the chair.

We sat there, the three of us, drinking tea and eating all the pastries. I managed to get my cock down, helped along by imagining it lying across an anvil in front of my father who was wielding a huge hammer. I don't know what my mother was thinking. For all appearances, she could have been at a church social.

Mom declined another pastry just after I accepted another, never being one to turn down a treat. Mom left, saying she was going upstairs because she needed a shower before going to bed. I ridiculously thought she was going to give us away when she glanced at me just as she said she was getting a shower.

After Mom left, Dad spoke to me in a lowered voice.

"Son, I know this is a little sensitive, but it has to be said."

Oh, no. He saw us. Christ, I thought he'd be angry, raving mad. Not calm like this.

"I know you're a growing lad, full of vim and vigor as I once was," Dad said, "but you have to get better control of yourself."

"Control?" I mustered as much innocence as I could and plastered it onto my face.

"Yes. You know what I mean." Dad waved his hand several times, then pointed it around and under the table. "You were starting to show when you came in the kitchen."

Despite myself, my face flushed beet red.

"I know, I know. It's just one of those things. It happens sometimes when a man is near a woman, even his own mother."


Dad looked away, up at the ceiling, as if he was remembering something.

He went on, looking at the table rather than me, completing his thought, "... especially sitting so close. Not much can be done about it, but you have to try."

Dad paused, staring at the table. He looked up.

"If your mother ever gets wind of it, she'll have a fit. There won't be a recital, and that would break her heart. And she'll never look at you the same."

Dad looked away, wistfully, at the ceiling again.

"Nope. She won't, that's for sure."

"Dad, I ...,"

He looked back at me, cutting me off. "I know, I know. You couldn't help it, sitting right behind a good looking woman like your mother. Even if she is your mom, a man can't help it. I know you have to sit like that to play that piece, but, um, maybe you should put on a jock strap before you play. That would help. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, Dad. I can do that," I said, eager to please, then feeling ashamed, I dropped my head.

"No, no. None of that. It's natural. Don't feel bad about yourself. God knows you can't help it at your age, I know about that. You just do as I said and make sure your mother never finds out. OK?"

"Ok, Dad."

"That's my boy." Dad got up from the table and walked past me toward me the door. "Well, don't stay up too late and don't think about it too much." Dad put his hand on my shoulder and shook it. "OK?"

"Ok, Dad."

"Not a word of this in confession. Right?"

"Right, Dad."

Extracurricular Activity

Mom didn't want to practice the next two nights. I wondered if Dad had said anything to her after they went to bed but decided that he hadn't. She must just be freaked about standing in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating biscuits with her husband while her son's cum dried in her panties. I rushed home from work to talk to Mom on Wednesday, knowing I had about half an hour before Dad got home. I found her at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea. I got right to the point.

"Mom, we have to practice or we'll blow the recital."

She avoided my eyes, looking down like my father had done Sunday night.

"You don't want that, do you?

"No."

"Is something wrong?"

There, I had opened it up. I had thought about this all day and was scared of this, knowing it might lead to an ultimatum.

"No. Well, not really. It's just that," Mom was twisting her fingers together on the table in front of her. "It's just that ... things went a little further than I thought. I just, I just ... oh, I'm so confused."

Tears appeared under Mom's eyes, running over her cheeks and dripping onto the table, but there was no sound, no sobbing or crying. I tried Dad's thought, that I was just an eager teenager that couldn't help himself.

"Mom, I know. It's just that, well, I can't help myself, being so close to you, you being so pretty and all."

"I know all about that, Jon. I'm not really all that worried because I know I won't let it get out of hand. You know that too, don't you?"

Mom's piercing look demanded my attention and I nodded.

"I know, Mom. Just a little fun, that's all. Maybe not so far from now on."

"Yes," Mom looked down. "Maybe not so far."

Thank god she wasn't cutting me off completely. Putting my dick into her panties was a little outrageous and I was certain if it hadn't been for the recital she would have cut me off for good. Instead, she was just putting the brakes on a little. I was pretty sure that meant I could still play with her tits, but had to keep my dick out of her panties. But maybe not my hands, I thought. She hadn't been upset after that, so that must be ok. It made sense. That must have felt good to her, but jamming my cock under her bum probably didn't do anything for her at all. I had to remember to make her feel good, I thought, repeating it, trying to burn it into my mind.

"It's something your dad said to me Sunday night. I couldn't sleep for hours after that."

"What did he say?"

"He said all boys have a little something for their moms but it doesn't mean anything, they grow out of it."

"He said that?"

"Yes. Do you think he knows? I couldn't bear that."

"No Mom. Sunday night, after you went up to bed, Dad told me to watch myself because he could see I was a little excited."

"Really? He wasn't mad?"

"No. He said he understood, that it was natural even if the woman was your mother, especially one as good looking as you."

Mom's face flushed. Her tears had stopped and dried on her cheeks.

"And?"

"He told me to be careful because you would get really, really mad if you noticed."

Mom couldn't help a little burst of quiet laughter at the irony of that.

"He told me to wear a jock strap whenever I practiced sitting right behind you."

Mom burst out laughing, loudly this time, and I joined in.

"Oh, goodness gracious," Mom said, tears in her eyes, of joy this time. "You better do as your father says," she said, laughing, "because he might check. So," she mused, "he doesn't know how far things have gone?"

"Nope."

"Don't say 'nope'."

"No," I corrected myself. "Is that all that was bothering you, Mom?

She said it was but I could tell there was something else. She insisted that was all. She got up and put her cup and saucer in the sink.

"Your father will be home any minute."

He should have been here now. I said as much.

"Oh, right. I asked him to stop by the store on the way home."

I was right behind Mom and she almost walked into me when she turned around. I looked down at her chest and she noted where I was looking.

"Will you show them to me, Mom?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mom barked.

"Come on, Mom. I know they're beautiful. I can feel that."

"No way."

"Come on, Mom. Let me see them so I can imagine them at night."

"You think about me at night?"

"Yes."

"No. That's not right for you to think about me at night ... doing what?" Mom looked inquisitively into my eyes, thought better of it and, blushing, said, "Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

Mom tried to push past me but I blocked her way, putting my hands at the top of her arms to guide her back in front of me, then sliding them down and inward to let my palms brush the sides of her breasts.

"Come on, Mom. Just a little peek."

I twisted my hand, rubbing my palms on the tops of her breasts, then started undoing a button on her white blouse.

"Stop it, Jon. Your father will be home any minute."

"No he won't," I said, slipping the button out and moving down to the next one. "If you sent him to the store, you know he'll be at least fifteen more minutes. He can't find anything in there."

"Jon, don't," Mom said as I slipped the second button undone and moved to the next.

She was saying don't but she was breathing harder.

I felt like a user saying it but I said it anyway.

"It will help me do my best at the recital."

"Don't," she said, more quietly as I loosed the third.

"No," she peeped as the fourth gave in.

"Please," she whispered as the fifth fell.

Mom didn't say anything when I undid the sixth and last button, pulling her blouse up out of her skirt to get to it. I spread the blouse open, then reached for Mom's bra, fumbling, fumbling. Mom stood, silent, arms listless at her sides as I struggled with the hook.

"Christ," I said, impatient in my haste.

"Don't swear," Mom said automatically, like a drone.

Finally, the bra twisted open. I pulled it wide and Mom's full, bare tits spilled forward, and down, bouncing.

Man. They were gorgeous. Sure they sagged down a little but they were larger than I expected after handling them. The nipples didn't point down as I'd seen in National Geographic pictures of naked older women. They sat on top, above a large, round swell, perking up nice and thick, getting longer and stiffer as I looked.

"Ahhh, Mom. These are fantastic!"

I closed my hand around the bulk of her breasts, encircling her growing nipples in the crooks of my thumbs.

"You have incredible tits," I said, expressing my delight loudly.

"Quiet," Mom's head twisted around. "Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear?"

"Wow," I cried, just as loudly, then lower, "What fantastic tits."

"Breasts," Mom corrected me.

"Tits," I repeated. "Every woman has breasts," I said, "but these are tits."

The admiration in my face showed Mom how much I meant it. She smiled, then frowned as my head lowered.

"No, Jon, don't."

But she couldn't stop me even though she raised her hands to hold my head away. My lips approached her stiff nipple as I opened my hand to make room. It stood up like a pygmy's cock.

"No," Mom repeated as my mouth enveloped her nipple and I started sucking it.

"No," Mom cried, arching her back and pushing her tit further into my mouth, her arms suddenly pulling my head down instead of trying to push it away.

I knew then what else was bothering Mom. She liked it. She liked my attention, the way I teased her, and the way it made her feel. And yes, I think she even liked standing in front of her husband, eating a pastry, with my wet cum drying on her ass. And that bothered her, because that was way out there, and she was a good, church-going woman.

If my theory was correct, I reasoned, all I had to do was take my time, move Mom along in small steps, excite her in ways she wasn't used to, in ways that would never happen with Dad, and one day, when she was really horny, she might even let me get into her.

That thought sent a zing through my cock but the crunch of tires on gravel sent a chill up my spine. Mom was bent back over the arm I had curled around the small of her back, and I was leaning over her, mouth enveloping her tit and sucking her nipple hard. My other hand was pushed between her legs, rubbing her front. Mom threw my head back with a quick snap.

"Your father," she cried, panic on her face.

For a brief moment she stood still, arms wide tits jutting from her chest, the right one soaked with my slobber, then she ran past me out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Dad and I were sitting at the kitchen table when Mom came downstairs wearing the same outfit but all buttoned up properly. She set about preparing dinner while Dad told her about his day and she commented here and there. I didn't say anything, pretending to read a magazine, and didn't look up until Dad surprised Mom with his little comment.

"You're traveling a little light today, dear," Dad said.

"Light?" Mom asked, wondering what he was talking about. Then she saw where Dad was looking. "Oh that. You don't mind, do you honey? It's so hot in the house this summer."

"Mind? No, I don't mind, but ...," Dad jerked his head in my direction.

"Jon?" Mom asked, really surprised. "He's not going to pay any attention to his old mother. Don't be ridiculous!" Mom's voice was suddenly angry.

Dad threw up his hands, capitulating before an argument even started.

"I would never go out like this, you know that, and if anyone came by I'd change."

"No, no. That's fine Mother," Dad kept backpedaling. "You're right. You should be comfortable in your own home and we're all family here."

"Oh, Drew. Really!" Mom was mad and turned away. Dad looked a me and ducked his head with a quick smile as if to say, 'Told you so.'

I looked at Mom, still tossing things around the counter, her breasts bouncing in reaction. I wondered if she had washed my slobber off upstairs. I thought not. I bet when she went to do it and then changed her mind, brazenly walking downstairs, braless, with my saliva still dampening her tit. I bet that shameless act sent tingles reverberating through her body, finally congregating in her special place.

Beyond the Pale

That night, Mom went upstairs and came back wearing pajamas. Man style pajamas with a cotton shirt top and bottoms. She sat on the couch for a while, reading, then, without a word she dropped her book and walked out of the room to sit in front of the piano. She started playing, practicing one of the pieces we'd been working on. I listened for a few minutes, then got up to join her.

"Maybe you should get changed too, son," Dad said as I passed in front of him.

"Changed?" I asked.

Dad made his hand into a claw and pulled it up in front of his crotch, then pointed a me.

"Oh," I said, blushing. "Right."

"I'll be right down, Mom," I called, rushing up the stairs. "I'm just going to get changed."

I put on my pajamas and a jock strap, just in case Dad wanted to check, then headed down to join Mom. I straddled her hips and snuggled up close, no longer shy about pressing my lump into her backside. Mom didn't break her stride but continued playing. I placed my hands on her hips. I wanted to slide between her legs but realized - I don't know why I hadn't thought about this when I first saw her in pajamas - that there was no skirt to hide under.

Oh well. I slid my hands under Mom's shirt and snuggled them underneath her breasts. There was nothing wrong about playing with these. Before long, I was squeezing and playing with Mom's nipples, flicking them about with my fingers, pulling and tugging. But now I had seen them and put my mouth on one and I wanted more. I wanted to suck them, and I whispered as much in Mom's ear.

"Shhhhh," Mom whispered, playing on.

"I want to do more," I complained. "Why didn't you wear a skirt?"

"To keep you from doing more," Mom whispered. Then she laughed. "Do you have your little chastity belt on?" she tittered.

"Very funny," I whispered.

"I'm sorry, honey. I couldn't resist teasing you."

"It's Ok."

I dropped my hands down to Mom's waist and began toying with her navel, circling my fingertip around and around, then slowly poking it in and out. The suggestion wasn't lost on Mom.

"Stop that."

"What?"

"You know what."

I kept playing with Mom's navel.

"Do you think Grandma let Dad touch her?"

Mom missed a beat.

"I'll bet she did. I bet Dad felt her up all the time."

Mom was stiff. I suspected I was onto something and I pursued it.

"Let's look up some old pictures. I bet she had nice ones. That's probably why he married you, because you have such nice tits."

Mom was so rigid I don't know how she managed to keep playing.

"I'll bet Grandma let Dad suck them whenever he wanted, whenever Grandpa wasn't around." I paused for effect, then said, "Or do you think she let him suck them even when Grandpa was in the house?"

"Stop talking such trash."

But Mom was breathing faster. I was getting to her.

"Yeah, I bet she did. I bet she even let Dad touch her, down there."

I trailed my fingertip down from Mom's navel to the elastic band of her pajama bottoms.

"I bet that's where she liked it best."

I slipped my finger, just the tip, under the elastic.

"Yeah," I whispered. "I bet she let Dad get behind her and slip his hand under her pants," I husked in Mom's ear.

Mom went even more rigid and I pushed my hand under the waistband of her pajamas, stretching my finger down until I contacted pubic hair.

"He touched her pussy," I whispered, swishing my fingertip across the top of Mom's bush, feeling her react to me now and not just my voice and the pictures I was planting in her head.

I rubbed all around Mom's clit and then inserted my fingertip inside the little hood covering it to trigger her clit. Mom expelled the air in her lungs in a long whoosh and her hips initiated a series of tiny humps. I pushed my other hand under her waistband, below my flicking finger, scraping back and forth across her rubbery lips, opening them, then wormed my fingers inside.

She was hot and very wet, and she had stopped playing the piano.

"Play," I hissed, pushing my fingers in and out.

"I can't."

"Play," I repeated, jamming my fingers in and out, circling and flicking her clit. "Play," I whispered again.

Mom only grunted in reply. I turned to look in the living room, into the bookcase, looking for Dad's reflection, but the cabinet door was open and I couldn't see anything at all. Desperately, I rubbed my finger up and down in Mom's soaked pussy, then side to side and in and out again. I circled her clit faster, then put the pad of my finger right on it and started shaking. Within seconds, Mom's hand flailed about and she went rigid, mouth open, hips jerking, legs vibrating. Suddenly, she relaxed completely, slumping in my arms.

I pulled my hands out of Mom's pants. Just in time, because Dad sat up and came into the hallway between the two rooms.

"Tea?" he asked.

"Yes. Thanks, Dad."

He bustled off to the kitchen. A minute later I joined him, leaving Mom to recover from what I guessed was the best orgasm she'd had in a long, long time. It was just fingers, but her son had played the piano since he was little, under her tutelage. Dexterity was his second name.

"Did the trick, did it?" Dad asked, looking back when I entered the kitchen, nodding at my crotch.

I smiled and snapped my pajamas out, showing him the jockstrap.

"A hundred percent," I laughed. "Mom didn't feel a thing. But then, I kept reminding myself that she's my mom and that pretty much settled me down."

"Good, good. That's the way son."

Mom joined us not long after that and we sat and chatted, sipping our tea. Dad got up first, saying he was off to bed and Mom said she would be right behind him, she'd had enough practicing for one night.

She stared at me after Dad left, as if I was a stranger. If she was wanting an explanation about what had just happened, why I started whispering to her about Dad and Grandma, I had none. Clearly, it bothered her, no maybe intrigued was a better word, that her husband might have tried to feel up his mother, or even more. How far had she let him go? No, she wasn't intrigued, she was excited.

"Maybe we shouldn't have a recital," Mom said. "Maybe it isn't such a good idea."

"Maybe," I answered, getting up and walking around the table to stand in front of Mom.

"I think we should quit right now," Mom said.

I grabbed Mom's hands and pulled her to her feet, twisting her around to sit her on the corner of the table.

"Don't be silly, Mom. You know you want the recital."

"Yes," Mom acknowledged. "But it's too dangerous."

"And exciting," I said. "Hasn't it been exciting? Don't you feel more alive?"

"Yes," Mom reluctantly agreed. "But it could ruin our lives. It's too much to risk."

"Won't you miss it?" I asked.

"The danger?"

"I was thinking more of the excitement. Like this," I said, plunging my cupped hand between her legs and gripping her pussy.

"Jon! Don't, stop it."

Mom tried to force my arm away but she couldn't and I palpitated her pussy, shaking my whole arm to add to the stimulation. Within a minute, Mom's resistance faded and she simply sat, letting me frig her through her pajamas. I stood her up but her legs were weak and she slumped to the kitchen floor. I followed her down, keeping my hand on her pussy.

She closed her eyes when I slipped my hand inside and inserted my fingers in her hole again. She didn't even notice, as she writhed around on the floor, that I managed to get her bottoms down to her knees. And then she got the shock of her life, and by the way she reacted, I think it may have been the first time she'd ever had such a treat. I pulled my fingers out of her and pushed my tongue inside.

She moaned aloud and began muttering 'Oh god' over and over as I lapped and licked, swirled and stabbed. She absolutely loved it when I pulled my tongue out, formed a tight little hook at the end and moved it up to flick her clit, rapidly at first, then slow, really slow, then fast and slow again. I kept it up until she exploded into a wild orgasm, her hands trying to plunge my head through her wildly thrusting hips.

When she was done, it was like she'd gone catatonic. She lay sprawled on the floor, arms and legs twisted about, head lying to the side on the floor, her mouth wide open in that silent scream I'd seen before. 


My father, I was certain, didn't know how to fuck this woman. I was positive that was the first time she'd ever been eaten. I shuffled up to Mom's head, pushing my pajamas down. I had been ready to just go upstairs and jack off but that open, inviting mouth reminded me about my thoughts the night before. I needed to push Mom over the edge, to break her free of the constraints holding her in her strict, prudish life.

Lying on my side in front of Mom's head, I flipped the jockstrap down and freed my raging boner. Holding it with my right hand, I put my left behind Mom's head and pulled it onto my cock, quickly inserting a couple of inches before she could close her mouth. Mom's eyes flew open in shock as I began moving in her virgin mouth, perhaps the first cock it had ever tasted.

She struggled at first but she couldn't break my hold and then she just seemed to accept it, letting me push in an out, fucking her face, while she looked up at me. She never looked away. She watched me the whole time I fucked her mouth, right up to the second I unloaded on her tonsils, gagging and gurgling as she struggled to swallow my load. When I was done, I pulled my cock out until the tip was on her lips, moving it around until she began licking it, swirling her tongue all around the head to clean it off, letting me push it back into her mouth a few times to squeeze out a few remaining drops.

I pulled the jockstrap over me, got onto my knees and then stood up, pulling my pajamas up. Mom raised her hand and I pulled her up, stooping to grab her pajamas and pull them up over her hips before she could do it herself. Then I kissed her, catching her by surprise.

"Think about this tonight and let me know tomorrow if the recital is still on."

I turned and walked away.

Lost and Found

I was pretty cocky the next day. The more I thought about things, the more I convinced myself that I had been right about Mom. It wasn't all about the recital. She had always used her allure and favors to accomplish her goals but she also got off on it and learned to like it, rationalizing her own behavior as necessary because she was too proper to want wild sex. But when pushed near the edge, she had the potential to leap far beyond. Last night had confirmed my theory.

I worked through lunch the next day and rushed home a half hour earlier than usual to give me extra time alone with Mom before Dad arrived. Mom was surprised to see me, and then again, perhaps not so surprised.

As with the last time, she was in the kitchen slicing vegetables for a salad. I surprised her and she whirled around, paring knife in hand, looking frightened, then relieved and pleased. I was just happy to see that Mom was following her new braless-around-the-household routine and that, at least while she was alone, a pair of buttons were deemed sufficient to keep her shirt together and allowed maximal access for cooling air.

And her son's hands. As I strode toward Mom, she lifted her arms for the hug she could see coming. I slipped my left arm around her waist and my right hand slickly inside her blouse to firmly grasp her tit. I smothered Mom's protest with my lips and soon slipped my tongue in her mouth. It was a long kiss. I wanted time to work on Mom's breast to get past the anger I detected in her brief protest before my mouth covered hers, time for her body to react and override her mind. My cock was tingling with excitement and so was my brain when I realized Mom's body was reacting as I hoped, so when I felt Mom's nipple poking hard into my palm, I released her and gulped in much needed air.

CRACK!

I reeled back, stunned. Mom's right arm was swinging back from what must have been a full swing right cross, open-hand slap across my face which stung like hell.

"Don't you ever grab me like that again! Do you hear me?", Mom screamed.

I yanked my head up and down.

"I want you to do that recital, and I'm willing to reward you for it, but it's something that I give, not something you take. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"I can't hear you."

"Yeah. I mean, Yes, Mom."

"Alright. Now run along and make yourself scarce until your father comes home."

I was shocked but by the time I got to my room, I was angry. To hell with her stupid recital, I thought. I started a shoot-em-up game on my computer and took out my frustration until I was called down for supper. Mom was wearing the same blouse but three more buttons were now secured. Still, the movement of her breasts under the blouse was like an electric magnet to my eyes. For some reason, her recent rebuke made her seem incredibly desirable. I was happy when Dad asked if Mom minded if he ate his dessert in the living room while he watched the news. I stayed in the kitchen with Mom.

"Did you want to practice tonight?" Mom asked, slicing a piece of pie for me and one for her.

"Yeah, that would be great, Mom."

"So, the recital's still on then?"

"Definitely. Why wouldn't it be?"

"That's good," Mom replied. "I don't know. For some reason I wasn't sure."

Mom put the pie slices on a couple of plates and brought them to the table but she didn't set them down.

"Boy, it's been really hot here today," she said, glancing toward the living room where the sound of the evening news drifted down the hallway toward us. "Do you think you can help me with something before we have our dessert."

"Sure Mom," I answered, eager to make up for my transgression this afternoon.

Mom leaned forward, holding the pie plates out to her sides.

"Can you loosen my blouse for me," she lowered her voice, "to give me a little air."

What a reversal. Though taken completely by surprise, I nevertheless lifted my hands to her blouse with only the slightest delay. Shock may have registered on my face because Mom had a smug smile on her face. I didn't care. She was asking me to undo her blouse and that's all that mattered. One button, two. She made no move to stop me, waiting patiently while I stared at her expanding cleavage as if I'd never seen it before. I slipped a third button loose.

"Can you adjust them so they get more air," Mom asked. "My hands are full."

I slipped both hands tentatively inside, fingers slipping under the round bottoms of her breasts, lifting and separating her tits.

"That's it, like that," Mom whispered.

She set her pie down and then reached under my arms to put mine in front of me. I couldn't help taking the opportunity as her breasts dipped to slide my thumbs over to flick her distended nipples. I braced myself for another slap.

"That was little bratty, Jon," Mom said, raising her right hand. "Do you think it was worth it?"

I cringed. Mom's hand closed on my head, but slowly.

Grasping a handful of my hair, Mom pulled my head toward her and pulled her blouse apart with the other.

"Suck it, you bad boy," Mom hissed, lifting her left breast and feeding her long nipple into my mouth.

I sucked her nipple in hard but she still pushed her tit into my face and pulled on my head, her hand working it around in a circle around her breast. For at least a minute, Mom ground my head on her tit, then suddenly pulled her tit away and yanked my head back.

"That's better," she said, sitting down. She carved off a piece of pie with the edge of her fork and raised it to her mouth, smiling sweetly at me before slipping it into her mouth, tongue extending to receive it.

Fuck I was hard. I was panting and my boner felt like it was going to break.

"Eat your pie, sweetie," Mom said.

I picked up my fork and put a piece into my mouth, looking at Mom's breasts heaving under the partially closed but still unbuttoned blouse. Mom looked down at her ample bosom.

"Oh, yes," she said, putting her fork down. Mom grasped her blouse in both hands and pulled it apart, tucking it back beside her breasts, then resumed eating her dessert, bare tits jutting out, capped by stiff nipples.

"Don't you like your dessert?" Mom asked, since I wasn't eating. "I thought it was your favorite."

I put a piece of pie in my mouth.

"Don't you like your pie like this?" Mom sucked another piece in on her extended lips and smacked her lips, "Mmmmmmm."

She turned slightly toward me as if to show me something, jutting her left tit out. It was sparkly wet, covered in my saliva.

"I love dessert, too," Mom said, "but you can't have it all the time. Right?"

I shook my head.

"Should we practice especially hard tonight?" Mom put extra emphasis on 'hard'.

I nodded enthusiastically, hopefully.

Mom prepared a hot toddy for Dad and asked me to take it to him while she got changed for practice. I had already changed into my pajamas and lied to my Dad when he asked, on seeing me in my pajamas, if I had remembered my jockstrap.

I was surprised to see Mom descending the stairs in a fancy dress with a tight bodice and bare shoulders and a full, generous and loosely pleated skirt. Smiling, she walked past me to talk to Dad. I craned my neck to hear her words since she was speaking so quietly.

"Drew, I'm going to do a full dress rehearsal, to get in the mood. Please don't interrupt us until we're finished. Ok?"

"Ok, dear. You look beautiful in that dress."

"Thank you, honey," Mom replied, twirling in front of Dad. She started toward me but then spun around and walked to the open bookcase against the far wall. She closed the glass door and returned to the piano. Shit. I had purposely left the door open so Dad couldn't look up and see us in the reflection from the glass. Didn't Mom realize that Dad might be able to see us?

I leaned back to let Mom sit down and my worry dissipated, my groin flushing with oxygenated blood as she spread her skirt to her sides over my legs and didn't sweep it underneath herself. She began to play.

I was quickly disappointed when I realized that the tight bodice of Mom's dress prevented me from getting my hands underneath to play with her bare breasts. I much preferred a skirt and blouse. If she hadn't closed the bookcase, I could have fondled her without worry. With a shrug, I slipped my hands under the billowy skirt to rest my hands on Mom's hips, bare except for the narrow band of her panties. I slid my hands slowly up and down her legs, gradually working my way further inward on each backward pull. The loose skirt offered no resistance and I was soon running my fingers up and down deep inside Mom's thighs.

Mom played without missing a single beat. She turned her head to smile at me so I knew she didn't object to my long, stroking caresses. This was to be a reward practice and my cock leapt in my pajamas at the thought. In confirmation, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking, Mom arched her back after turning to face the piano again, twisting her ass up and toward me. Quickly, I shoved my hips forward to reap the reward of her more open and inviting ass, my stiffening cock lodging between her covered cheeks.

Under the pretense of pulling Mom closer, as if I had to pretend, I tried to get my fingers onto the front of her panties but her legs were a little too close together. Magically, they parted, allowing me easy access. I let my fingers stay on her panties, gleefully but delicately rubbing the silky material. Minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised when she didn't object to my prying fingers as they dug into her soft belly to slip under the waistband of her panties. Seconds later, the tips of my index fingers were running up and down her rubbery lips, already slippery from my caresses and, I suspect, Mom's own anticipation.

Once again, she turned, smiled, and arched her back before facing the piano. I pushed my throbbing member further under Mom's butt despite the roughness with which my cotton pajamas treated its tender head.

The music shifted to the long, lilting section I knew preceded the finale. Mom played with one hand, reaching behind her to grasp my wrist, pulling my hand away from delivering the delicate rubs she seemed to enjoy so much. Why was she stopping me?

Mom turned and smiled at me again, more a frustrated smile than a sweet one. She pulled my hand around her hip and then along her skin directly behind her, until my finger was poised in the small of her back. Down, she pushed, directing my finger between the swell of her buttocks and into the groove between, and below, until it snagged the waistband of her panties. After a brief pause, as if to signal that I was now where she wanted me, Mom released my hand and returned hers to the keyboard, broadened her smile, and turned away to face the keyboard.

I still exactly wasn't sure what Mom wanted me to do until she leaned way forward, her chest almost touching the keyboard, squeezing my left hand tightly between her belly and her leg, and cocking her behind up toward me in an exaggerated posture. Then, I knew.

Slowly, wanting to emphasize and prolong the sensation for us both, I pushed my hooked finger lower, dragging the waistband of Mom's panties with me. I had to push hard to pull the wings of her panties over her hips and around the bulge of her cheeks but Mom lifted her bum to make it easier for me. I really wanted to leave my finger embedded in her crack but the slow lilt on the piano was well under way and I didn't want to waste any more time.

I pulled my hand out and depressed the waistband of my pajamas, allowing my throbbing member to spring forth with such eagerness I had to push down with extra effort to guide its head under Mom's bum, sliding with a snap past the waistband of her panties. As soon as it was in, I slid my right hand around to rejoin its brother, easing Mom's right rubbery lip apart, opening her soaking butterfly wide. I wished I could have my head under Mom's skirt just to see that but not in lieu of dipping my fingertips into her wet pussy in time with the soft lilt of the music and the long slide of my cock between the panties and her cheeks.

It was all I could do not to cry out each time my cock skidded under Mom's perineum to the forchette of her vulva and beyond. Mom had leaned so far forward that my cock was able to just peek inside her open lips, spread apart by my teasing fingers. Though her playing was impeccable, Mom released a small moan each time my cockhead nudged into her slit.

I pressed my attack with a subdued but insidious fervor just ahead of the inexorable progression of the music. Ever just barely on the leading edge, my cock sawed back and forth, scraping less and less as Mom released her love oil in a silent welcome. Mom was so wet, I was convinced I could hear my cock sloshing through her panties above the music, but surely that was an illusion. Anyway, by the time I was conscious of it, the music was louder and more intense and we were nearing the climax. I could no longer hear anything but our panting breath.

Mom slipped into the final stretch, leaning into it to pound the keys and I followed suit, thrusting my hips forward as far as I could while at the same time being careful not to push her right off the bench. My cock was pushing into Mom's slit, dragging her fluid out, thus helping each subsequent forward shove but, try as I might, a slight insertion was all I could manage.

Mom and I were in divine harmony with the music and when the finale came crashing down I released my golden spunk in a series of glorious torrents, struggling to keep my head ensconced inside Mom's heavenly slit. As the echoes of the last keys resounded through the house and slowly receded into the walls, Mom sat back on the seat, forcing me out of her slit but enveloping me between her lusciously snug cheeks. Mom's behind squeezed, wringing out the final vestibules of my gift as my cock shrunk, the last drops seeping from its retreating head.

The house fell silent and I slipped out as Mom stood. She looked very sexy as she padded away in bare feet rather than the high heels one would expect to accompany such a fancy dress, across the hallway and into the living room where she turned to face my father, who was clapping loudly. Mom flung her hands wide, a huge smile gracing her face, then bowed to her audience and, with less professional affection, leaned forward out of my sight to give my father a kiss and accept his gratified hug.

I replayed that vision all night, each time I yanked my cock. My mother, leaning over to kiss my father as he hugged her tight to show his appreciation of her talented delivery. I wasn't visibly part of that beautiful family spectacle but I was there all the same, inside my mother's panties, a sticky offering worshipping the entrance to her cathedral.

Mother was clearly over the edge, and so was I.

Pictures

Several days followed with little interaction between us. Mom, I suspect, needed a little space and I was wary of approaching her after such an intense episode, given what had happened the last time. I decided to wait for a sign that she was approachable, no matter how hard that was for me to do.

We had gone through the weekend but I and the other serfs were laid off for a few days while the heavy equipment was moved to a new location. Mom sent me out to clean up Dad's carpentry shop in the backyard, mostly, I think, to keep me out of her hair, top and bottom.

I knew Dad didn't like anyone trespassing in his sacred shop, so I didn't do much. I swept the floor and put some stuff away that wasn't in obvious use for one of the several projects he had going on, but that was about it. In my general tidying, I came across a wooden box, obviously made by my father, lying atop our old kitchen cupboards mounted on the far wall of the shop. I stepped carefully down the ladder and placed the box on the large work-table in the center of the shop.

It took me a few minutes to figure out how to open the box and if Dad hadn't made me smaller versions as toys when I was a kid, I might have ended up simply putting it back unopened. But three simple pushes and pulls, sliding small pieces of embedded wood in or out, and the lid popped up. I eased the spring-loaded top open, wary of that it was some kind of trick box. It wasn't, but I was still surprised, by the contents.

There were three bundles of pictures neatly laid out left to right, in the sequence of their dates, noted on the paper wrapped around them to protect the pictures from the elastic bands keeping them together. The pictures were dust free, safe inside the felt-lined cedar box.

I picked up the first bundle and freed it from its wrapping. I began looking at the pictures, careful to place them face down in the box in the original order. Knowing my father, he would know if a single picture was out of place.

They were all pictures of Grandma, about Mom's age, and the resemblance to Mom was striking, given they weren't related. Oh, you wouldn't have mistaken them as relatives, but their hair was a similar color, something I didn't know because Grandma's had been gray as long as I remembered. What I did notice, and probably wouldn't have a few months ago, was how much their figures were alike. If you exchanged bodies under the heads, you wouldn't have noticed.

Both women, Mom now and Grandma in the pictures, had wonderful figures. Ample but not overly large breasts miraculously supported above surprisingly narrow waists atop flaring hips atop a pair of tapering legs that appeared long but weren't because both Mom and Grandma were only about five foot four, tops. I would wager that both women were slender in their youth and grew into their sexually appealing bodies late in their twenties, well after childbirth.

Half a dozen pictures down, I found another similarity between Mom and Grandma. The only picture I had encountered so far with another person in the frame, my grandfather. I was surprised to see that he was eight to ten years older than Mom, about the same difference between Mom and Dad's ages.

I moved on, examining each photo and carefully turning them over onto the 'seen' pile. The pictures grew increasingly familiar and Grandma seemed happier and happier with the unseen photographer, which I assumed was my grandfather except for that one, which could have been a delayed photo; cameras did have that ability even back then.

More and more of the pictures featured Grandma facing away from the camera and focused on parts of her womanly assets that only a husband would have knowingly been permitted to take. There were pictures of Grandma in a pert, navy blue dress followed by pictures in the same dress, but the entire frame was filled with her hip and legs, prominently displayed as she sat on a stool from a side perspective to the camera. The next picture was the same except one hand was not present, holding the hem a few inches above Grandma's left knee. Several more followed with the hand moving progressively higher until the hem was a far as it could go without pulling it over Grandma's hip.

She had nice legs, the calf muscle of the leg in the foreground tensed as she rested her foot on the lowest rung of the stool, the pressure of her weight bulging her bare thigh out in the later pictures, above her white stocking and the last two revealing garter snaps that disappeared under her dress. I remembered the first time I had seen straps like that between Mom's legs. As my cock stiffened, I pressed against the side of the heavy wooden table, pleased with the pressure exerted on my hardening member.

Well over a dozen photos followed with similar progression but in different skirts and dresses. Always, Grandma's face wasn't present in the revealing pictures. Then the theme changed to pictures of Grandma in a variety of different tops: full shirt blouses, tank tops, and sleeveless blouses. Again, Grandma's face disappeared when the photos became more intimate, focusing on her chest, the gap between her lapels widening as the sequence progressed. The final photo in that series depicted no gap at all. Instead, Grandma was wearing a muscle t-shirt that was way too large for her, a fortunate thing for the viewer because her breasts bulged out the open sides and her nipples poked stiffly into the thin material which was woefully inadequate for hiding her womanly charms.

A muscle shirt. Grandpa wore a muscle shirt? That was hard to believe.

The last dozen pictures in the pile returned to the exposed leg theme but this time they were shot from a frontal perspective rather than from the side. Again, Grandma sat on a stool but both feet were now hooked on the lower rung and both legs were progressively exposed as the hems were pulled higher and higher, always by feminine hands that clearly belonged to the person wearing the dress. The photos cycled through various dresses and skirts but the final ones all featured a panty shot, the last one so close that I could see the woman's bush underneath a set of pale blue, lacy panties.

Despite knowing this was my grandma, I ground my cock against the edge of the heavy wooden shop table and I could feel myself leaking in my shorts. This was so fucking hot! I would never have imagined, or believed, before seeing these pictures, that my grandmother was once a hot looking woman that let someone take such erotic photos. The photographer had to be a man, but who?Grandma was teasing someone with peeks at her bosom and panties. Would she do that for her husband? Possibly. But would Grandpa have a muscle shirt to loan her for that one picture? I highly doubted it. She must have been teasing a younger man.

Slowly, a ridiculous idea formed in my brain but I think I subconsciously rejected it even before I became conscious of the thought. But it returned, demanding to be addressed, to be formally rejected. Why would my father have kept a box of pictures of Grandma teasing a man that wasn't his father? There was only one conclusion. The man was her son, my own father.

My mind reeled at the thought, recoiling in shock, despite the way I had teased Mom. I had just been fucking around then. The idea had just popped into my head for some reason I kept it up because it seemed to get Mom hot. My body had a different take. I exploded in my pants, and only then did I realize I had been grinding myself painfully against the table. Just then, Mom called out the back door. Lunch was ready.

Hurriedly, I flipped the stack over and bound it with the elastic. I knew my father had looked at these pictures recently, at least in the last few years, because the elastic was strong, not brittle with age, ready to break. I closed the box and carefully set it on top of the cupboards in the exact position it had previously lain, as demarcated by the dust around it.

I wasn't able to return to view the rest of the pictures that day. Mom made me mow the lawn and take a load of yard waste to the dump. By the time I finished, Dad was home, and the shop was out of bounds.

There was no practice again that night.

The next day, I escaped to the shop as soon as I could, fetching the box and releasing its contents with a keen eye on the house in case Mom should wander back, though to my knowledge she had never been in Dad's shop before.

I dragged the elastic off the second bundle. It was summer and the pictures started outside in my grandparents yard, the one I knew so well from being confined within it when I was little, free to run around, but only there. The pictures were taken in the backyard but to the right side of the house, the side that wasn't overlooked by any windows, from my grandparent's house or their neighbors. The front was screened by a trellis covered in a climbing vine that flowered in the summer. It was a private, shaded paradise.

Grandma sported colorful summer dresses in a couple of pictures which also featured Grandpa but those soon changed to short, white tennis dresses, tight white shorts, and eventually tattered jean shorts. The shorts pictures demonstrated something that the skirt photos hadn't: Grandma had a tremendous ass. My cock was pressed into the table again.

The pictures always dropped Grandma's face as the sequence progressed, inexorably moving to increasingly erotic views of Grandma's legs. Each outfit started with a smiling Grandma striking various poses, then dropped to her legs bent this way and that, then featured Grandma lying on the grass in similar postures, even lifting her legs in the air, bent and closed, then open and straight. Each outfit ended with the same series of poses. Grandma on her tummy, legs together, followed by three or four photos of her legs moving wider apart. The last few, my favorites, showcased Grandma with legs spread wide, in short skirts, a narrow band of panties clearly visible between her legs, especially the last picture but one, so close I could almost count the hairs supposedly hidden by her white panties.

But the last picture in the pile, that one I laid to the side, pulling my pecker out of my shorts, frantically yanking my pud as I stared at it, my breathing ragged and out of control as I burned the image of this last photo into my brain. Grandma was wearing her white tennis outfit but her legs were tightly pressed together. Why was this one so hot? Because Grandma's hips were lifted high off the grass while her head lay flat on the ground. Her short skirt was flipped over her hips onto her back and her butt was covered only partially by a skimpy pair of panties, the narrow band I'd seen in the previous photo. My eyes were initially drawn to the backs of her slender thighs and then much higher, to the stretch of her panties across her crack, halfway up her gorgeous ass. But it was the sight lower still that forced me to pull out my cock and stroke myself to orgasm. It was the darker colored patch framed by the triangle of her thighs and her ass, darker than the expanse of white above. Darker because it was soaking wet.

I came all over the floor. Mom was calling, for how long, I didn't know. Lunch was ready.

"I'll be right there," I yelled, stuffing my cock back in my shorts and scrambling around for some shop towels to clean up my mess.

Mom was wearing a nice outfit with matching tank top and tight shorts that emphasized how lovely and still youthful her body was. I compared her to Grandma. I'd fuck either one of them in an instant, and so would every guy I knew. I couldn't help getting hard again as Mom put a plate of sandwiches on the table and poured me a large glass of milk. I wondered if Mom knew about Dad's stash. I munched half a sandwich before I worked up the courage to broach the topic with Mom. She seemed cheery and in a good mood. Maybe tonight was going to be a good one again.

"Mom, do we have any old pictures of Grandma and Grandpa?"

"Old pictures?" Mom's eyes furrowed.

"Yeah. Ones I haven't seen before."

"No. You've seen all the pictures we have, many times, including the ones from their things after they passed away. You remember looking at them."

It was a statement, not a question, but it was Mom's diction that puzzled me, not her grammar.

"Yeah," I acknowledged, "but there's hardly any pictures of Grandma. I was just wondering if you or Dad had anymore lying around."

Mom's voice grew even more tense. "Why in the world would we hide pictures of your grandmother from you?"

"I didn't mean hide them. I just think it's weird that there are hardly any pictures of Grandma."

Mom looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Well, your father didn't like them around. That's all," Mom stated with finality, as if that was that.

"Why?" I persisted.

"I don't know," Mom snapped.

"Oh," I said, acting as if I had accidentally tread on sacred ground. "I'll ask Dad."

"You'll do no such thing," Mom exploded. "Don't you dare," she cried getting up.

I quickly leaned back, surprised by the vehemence of Mom's reaction, a degree of discomfort signaling she was aware of the photos; that I expected. But this?

"Just leave things alone!" Mom snapped as she stomped by me and out of the kitchen.

Well, I thought, I guess there's no practice tonight. And there wasn't.

The next day, I hurried to Dad's shop but not to look at pictures. Instead, I built a trellis to stretch from our house to our neighbor's fence, hiding our back yard from the street. With the trellis in front and the shop far behind, the high fence down the side and no overlooking windows from either house, I had created a sanctuary similar to the one in the pictures of my grandparents old yard.

Why?

Because of the pictures I saw in the last pile the day before, right after Mom stomped out of the kitchen when I asked about pictures of Grandma. Did her startling reaction mean she knew about the pictures or was it that she didn't want to be reminded about her second fiddle status to a woman long since gone? Surely, knowledge of the pictures would explain Mom's reaction but so would a long haul knowing your husband had picked a wife like his mother, and letting her know that, however unintentionally, through a thousand minor slights over twenty years.

I needed to know. If Mom knew about the pictures, then her loose behavior with me might be part of a payback plan and her sudden trips beyond the pale were probably not so spontaneous as they appeared. On the other hand, if she didn't know about the photos, then I needed to continue cultivating Mom, laying the seeds in which those surreal situations could bloom. I had been lucky more than once, or had I?

I worked hard all morning. Despite the noise of saws and hammers, Mom never came out to investigate, though I saw her in the kitchen window watching me carry stuff from the shop to the side of the house. At lunch, Mom was almost her normal self, just not cheery. She wore a flowered blouse made of a light, breezy material tied in a knot below her breasts, leaving her flat midriff bare. Below, she wore a pair of tan colored shorts made of a similarly light material, kind of like that quick-dry hiking stuff, that stretched tightly over her buttocks with a lift and separating effect that was more than flattering. Mom's now tanned legs tapered down to a pair of cheap, summer flip-flops. She would have to be deaf, blind and dumb to be unaware of my silent appreciation as she washed the few dishes from lunch by hand instead of putting them in the dishwasher, perhaps to avoid sitting down to talk to me face to face.

"So, what are you building?" Mom asked, casually, as if she wasn't really all that interested.

"Built," I corrected her.

"Built, then," Mom replied, her tone indicating she was keeping herself in check.

"A trellis."

"A trellis? What for?"

"So you can plant a vine with some nice flowers that will block the view from the street. It'll make that side of the yard really private so you can use it if you want to read outside in the sun."

"Oh!" By the sound of her voice, Mom was very pleased. She twisted toward me, her face beaming. "That's a great idea. What a wonderful thing to do. Where did you get that idea? You know your father will have a fit that you were in his shop, using his tools."

"I just remembered that Grandpa and Grandma used to have something like that and I used to hide around there when I didn't want to be found," I explained.

Mom's smile faded at the mention of my grandparents and she turned back to the sink.

"You just remembered it, did you?"

"Well, I found some old pictures in Dad's shop. That's why I was asking you about pictures of Grandma yesterday."

There, I'd done it. I'd thrown it out there. I watched Mom carefully to see how she would react, bracing myself for a repeat of yesterday's performance. But the volcano didn't erupt. Instead, Mom just kept washing the glass she was working on, pushing a dishcloth inside and wringing it around and around. This glass was threatening to become the cleanest one in history, if it didn't get worn out first. Finally, Mom spoke.

"Mmmmm, sorry about that, yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"You know, yelling at you and all that."

"Sure. No problem, Mom."

"I know your father had a bunch of strange pictures of his mother," Mom explained. "He said she had nice legs and was quite proud of them so one day when she was complaining about getting old, he offered to take pictures of them so she could remember what they looked like when she was in a nursing home. Just teasing her, he told me, but she took him up on it and the next thing he knew he was taking zillions of pictures of her in every dress she owned. He just couldn't bring himself to throw them away after she died. They were in her things. I don't know why they upset me, but they did, and yesterday all that came back in a flash."

I kept silent. Mom realized that the glass she'd been washing for several minutes was done and set it in the second sink.

"I guess I said more than a mouthful, didn't I? Is that what you found, pictures of Grandma's legs?" Mom turned to look at me.

"Yeah," I nodded. Before she turned away, I added, "Your legs are nicer though."

Mom turned back to the dishes.

"Thank you. I'm sure you feel obligated to say that."

"Not at all. The truth is the truth. Remember, I've seen the pictures. I know."

"Yah, yah," Mom replied.

"Let me take some pictures of you and I'll prove it."

"Just bring the pictures in and show me. Then we'll know."

"Nope. Pictures have to be compared to pictures."

"You're just trying to get in some extracurricular activity outside of piano practice. You don't fool me a bit, young man."

Strangely, what I really noticed was Mom's failure to correct me when I said 'nope'. I was picking up her lack of attention to correct speech as an early indicator that she had entered the slippery slope.

"Ok," I countered. "I just thought you might be interested."

More extensive dish washing. A plate this time.

"If I let you take pictures of me, will you show me the pictures,? I haven't seen them for a long time."

"Sure," I immediately agreed. Had I triggered her competitive spirit? Did she need to prove to herself that she had nicer legs than her mother-in-law, and always had?

"Alright then. Go get you camera."

"You'll have to come upstairs."

"Why? You can see my legs right here," Mom waved her hand down beside her leg, dripping soapy water on the floor.

"But Grandma was wearing lots of different dresses. It won't be a fair comparison unless you do it the same way."

"Fine," Mom's voice tensed up. "I'll go put on a dress. Given me a minute before you come up."

I waited ten minutes before going upstairs to Mom's room. I knocked on the door.

"I can dress faster than that. I have other things to do this afternoon, you know," Mom delivered a mild rebuke. "What's that for?" she pointed to the high stool I had carried up from the kitchen.

I didn't answer right away because I was taken aback by the dress Mom had picked. It was a navy blue dress very similar to the one Grandma had been wearing in the very first picture I had seen. Had her subconscious been active when she chose that dress?

"Uh, Grandma was sitting on a stool," I explained.

"Oh yeah. I remember." Mom plunked herself on the stool as soon as I set it down in the middle of her room. "Snap away," she said.

I took one picture, then said, "C'mon Mom. You saw those pictures. Grandma was being very coy, even sexy."

"Yes," Mom snapped, "in front of her son."

"Exactly," I replied, not sure what I meant by that response but it galvanized Mom. In an instant, her whole demeanor changed from an angry, uptight lady to a warm, yet alluring woman. She lifted her left leg and placed it on the lower rung of the stool, mimicking Grandma's pose in the first photo to a T. Had she done that from memory?

I snapped a few pictures and, without any prodding from me, Mom's left hand dropped onto her thigh, then pulled her dress higher, pausing for a couple more pictures before sliding higher and then higher.

"Is this what you wanted?" Mom purred, her throaty voice sending a tingle reverberating around my pelvis.

"Yeah, yeah," I answered, sounding short of breath.

"Good," Mom said, raising her skirt very high, pausing for a snap or two, then running her fingers down and stroking under the fleshy part of her thigh all the way along the bottom to the underside of her knee, then slipped over and slid up to the top of her thigh, holding the dress near her hip.

With a shock, I realized that the pictures told only part of the story. When my father looked at them, he must remember everything that was said and how it was said. What had transpired between each picture? What had he said to convince her to pull her skirt higher, to open her legs, to show him her panties for the first time? Was she really reluctant at first? Did she banter with him, teasing him with slight movements of her legs and feet? Did she curl her toes when she finally dropped her shoes to the floor? Unlike the first pictures, Grandma's feet were bare in most of the photos, sporting bright red or soft pink toenails.

"Did you think I'd show you my panties, like she did?"

She had seen the pictures. At least the ones in the dresses.

"You don't have to sneak around. Come in front," Mom waved me over with her free hand, the left still busy holding her dress up to her hip, exposing one leg but leaving the other mostly covered.

"Come on," she encouraged me, lifting her left foot from the rung and shaking her shoe off, then straightening her leg, holding it tense to emphasize the muscles, her foot stretched out, pointing to the front with her black painted toenails, where she wanted me to be.

I moved in front. Mom dropped her left foot back to its rung but kept her legs closed, twisting her knees this way and that. Then she started sliding the dress up her other leg until it was held near her hip too, exposing both legs to the same degree as her shorts did, but this was orders of magnitude sexier. 


"Do you want me to show you my panties?" Mom whispered.

I nodded, my cock hardening to her words, the way she said them, and the way I imagined my father had felt when his mother said the same thing to him.

Mom's knees parted slightly, then stopped. Click.

"But you've already seen my panties. I've already shown you." Mom's knees snapped shut.

What a fucking tease she was. I loved it.

"But that was in piano practice."

"That's right. That was to reward you, but this is different, isn't it?"

Mom's knees opened again, wider this time.

"This is just for the hell of it," Mom swore. Click.

"Do you like playing out of class," Mom straightened her left leg again, almost poking the camera with her pointing, flexing toes. "Hmmmmm?"

Click, click, click.

"I guess you do, don't you?"

Mom wasn't expecting me to answer. Of course I wanted to see them. Mostly, I'd only been able to touch them. She withdrew her foot but placed it on the highest rung on the stool, keeping her left knee high and her legs, necessarily, wide open. Her panties swam into view. Oh, but these weren't the same as the ones I'd seen that first time she'd opened her legs on the piano bench. No, these were bright red, made entirely of a fine, see-through mesh that did little to cover the pouting lips constrained beneath.

Click, click. As I crouched down to get a better view, I dropped the camera, looked down, and watched as it bounced on the carpet, seemingly in slow motion. I turned my head up and stared at Mom's red-screened pussy. I could feel the smile painted on her face, though I didn't look up. I moved forward, getting closer, my cheeks scraping along her inner thighs, and then I was there, my mouth covering that beautiful, red, dampish mesh, my nose inhaling its perfumed odor.

"Yes," Mom cried, her hands clamping on my head, then suddenly, "Wait!" her hands flailing wide.

I grasped her legs to stop her from falling backward off the stool.

"On the bed, put me on the bed," she ordered, eyes wild.

I lifted my little mother easily from the stool and carried her to the bed, flopping her down and immediately diving down to get my head between her skirt, her hands, even as she fell, already grasping my hair to pull me into place.

Munch, munch, munch. I loved living past the edge. I pulled her panties up, half way to her knees, pushed my head underneath the waistband stretched between her legs, and was snapped into place again by her urging fingers entwined in my hair.

"Ohhhhh, yes, yes, yessss ... eat it ... that's it, lick me, oh yeah, lick me."

Mom descended into a constant sequence of yearnings and encouragements. She steered my head around, down for me to shove my tongue in deep, out to lick her slit, around to slather her lips, and up to tease her clit, flicking fast and slow, and dipping for lingering taste. I thought all my hair would be pulled out of my head by the time she finished which took much longer than that first time on the floor.

When she was done, I pulled my head away, crouched back on my heels, then braced my hands on her widespread knees and pushed myself up to my feet. Mom didn't try to hide herself at all. She kept her legs wide open even though the tightly stretched panties, still strung across her thighs, must be urging them to close. She didn't try to push her dress down to cover her soaking wet, throbbing pussy, framed by pubic hair slick from her juice and my saliva. She just lay there on her back, regarding me calmly though her chest was still heaving with excitement.

"I suppose you want me to let you do what you did the other day. Don't you?"

I didn't say anything but I looked down at the edge of the bed, assessing if I needed to lift her further onto the bed or if I could just put my knees on the bed and lean over her head.

"You want to put your thing in my mouth, don't you?"

I nodded.

"Take it out then. Let me see if it's clean."

I shoved my hand in my shorts and popped the snap open with a twist, pulling my stiff cock out with a single, practiced movement.

"Do that a lot, do you?" Mom teased, acknowledging my expertise.

I leaned forward.

"I haven't said yes," Mom held up her hand.

I stopped, confused, then dropped my eyes to the wet pussy lying open a foot from my yearning dick.

"Not on your life, mister," Mom barked, snapping her legs closed and sitting up.

She looked at my cock, then reached out and took it, tentatively, in the soft, delicate fingers of one hand. She pulled it toward her and gave it a quick lick, then another, and another, followed by a slow twirl around its head. She looked up at me and smiled.

"I don't remember any pictures with a trellis in them," she said.

So she hadn't seen all the pictures. The trellis had only shown up in the second and third bundles. So Mom didn't really know the half of it.

"I want to see them all," Mom purred, dipping her head to lick my cock again.

"Ahhhhhh, Mom. That feels so good."

"Will you show me the rest of the pictures?" Mom looked up at me.

I hesitated and she dipped her head down to flick her tongue around my straining cock, quickly looking up for my answer as I groaned my pleasure.

I nodded. "Yeah. Sure, sure."

I tried to grasp Mom's head, like she had mine, but she batted my hands away, leaving my cock to waver uncontrollably in front of her face.

"Please, Mom," I begged, my cock lurching about.

Mom grasped my cock in her incredibly soft fingers again and quickly dipped her head, surprising me by enveloping my head and squeezing it to the roof of her mouth with her tongue, then swirling around it before pulling her mouth away with a loud pop. She looked up at me, groaning above her.

"All of them. Promise?"

"Yes, yes, yes."

This time she let me grab her head but I couldn't force it forward. Either she was too strong or I was suddenly weak.

"Say it," Mom commanded.

"All of them," I gasped. "I'll show you every picture."

"Deal," Mom said, lowering her head, treating me with the gift of her warm, sucking, teasing mouth.

I bet Mom didn't have much practice giving head but you wouldn't have known it from the cocksucking she gave me. Her head bobbed fast and slow and her fingers blended in perfectly with the music she was composing on the fly, one stroking, the other tickling or squeezing my balls, gently to goad me higher, hard to bring me down. Sometimes she looked up to smile at me but mostly she looked down, concentrating on her task. Several times she twisted her head to the side and urged me with her hands on my ass to thrust into her cheek, somehow knowing the sight of my cock bulging in her mouth would be tremendously exciting for me.

After maybe the fifth time she had squeezed my balls painfully hard, she drew her head back in a long pull - she had been slowly sliding her mouth down my shaft until her lips tickled my hairs, and then back, until her mouth sucked noisily completely off my dick. She had a way, as her mouth traveled up and down, of pulsing her tongue strongly along the underside of my shaft. That felt extremely good.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Yes. Please, please," I gasped. Please let me hold your head,I thought. I want to fuck your face.

But that was not to be. Mom quickly flipped around so that her back was facing me and then shuffled her hips away. She reached behind her and unzipped her dress, shaking it off her shoulders and letting it fall to her waist. Of course, she wasn't wearing a bra. Then Mom reached over and pulled a pillow from under the comforter and placed it behind her. She leaned back until she was lying flat on her back, her neck arched over the pillow, throat stretched long and her tits, already thrusting from the curve of her back, held up from her chest by her small hands which gently squeezed them to emphasize her very stiff nipples. Mom dropped her chin, opened her mouth wide, and waited.

Unfucking believable! When she went beyond the pale, she didn't walk, she leapt. I leaned forward, taking my own cock in hand since she wasn't providing any guidance. She was silent as I approached, intrinsically trusting her son, knowing she didn't have to warn me to be gentle. I pressed down, forcing my cock from its upright position, fighting its urgent need to spring upwards, bending it down, until the soft underside grazed the bottom of Mom's nose. Forward then, over her upper lip and into her mouth, Mom adjusting herself to save my tender head from grazing across her teeth, her tongue now tickling the top of my eager cock.

I pushed in. Oh, god. What a feeling. Slowly, ever so slowly, I nudged my prick deeper into her mouth until she could take it no more, gagging to warn me if I hadn't already twigged to the tension in her hands which gripped my thighs. I pulled back as Mom made a gargling sound, swallowing the extra saliva generated by my brief contact with her tonsils.

I pushed back slowly, trying to figure out where to stop short of my last stroke so Mom wouldn't gag. I stopped and Mom swirled her tongue around my head. I started to pull away but her hands tightened, clenching my thighs and pulled me forward, until my cock once again pushed against her throat. Again, Mom gagged and emitted that gargling sound but she quickly pulled me forward again, forcing my cock to the back of her mouth, gagging, holding me in place, twisting her head around my knob, before finally releasing me.

A quick, loud swallow and she pulled me back, faster this time, harder. Again the gagging, again holding me in place, her head grinding around on my cock. Release. Noisy swallow. My cock returning, in a thick, slippery bath. Gag, grind, no swallow this time. Away and quickly back, really wet now, gag, grind, pulled back, in on my own next time without Mom's urging, her fingers now inside my legs, tickling my balls. Oh god. Unbelievable. So unimaginably good.

Back and forth, back and forth. Now, no gagging. Mom holding me, by the balls, pulling, pulling, forward, in, shit, so tight, like I was in a cunt, slipping and sliding, Mom's head twisting, oh god, her hands pushing me away, pulling out, gasping, Mom gasping for air, sounding wet, her hand pulling my balls again, forward, fast, quickly popping into that cunt-like tunnel again.

I leaned forward, bracing my knees on the edge of the bed and placed my hands on Mom's tits which she had allowed to fall back on her chest. I grasped them firmly, squeezing her nipples into my palms, and used them to pull her throat closer to me, her head bending even more as it slipped over the edge of the bed. Alarmed, I lightened my grip on her tits, then realized that it was Mom, her heels digging into the mattress, who had shoved my cock deeper into her throat. I gripped her tits hard again and bulged my cock inside her mouth.

Back and forth, I was staring down at Mom, dimly becoming aware this wasn't The Exorcist, it was me, not some demon, that was making her throat bulge like that. Was I a demon? The thought strangely excited me and I moved faster in Mom's mouth, stayed longer in her throat. The sloppy sucking sounds filled the room. Then suddenly, it was upon me. I burst forth, coating her throat, mesmerized by Mom's pulsating neck, knowing it was me flooding inside her.

"Ohhhhhh, Goddddd," I moaned, over and over, my thrusts slowing, becoming weaker as my balls emptied.

When I was done, Mom pulled herself away from my cock with a final suck as it popped out of her mouth. She twisted around and got up onto her knees, sitting back on her heels, leaving her dress around her waist, tits bare and jutting toward me. She wiped her mouth delicately with one hand. Not a drop of my cum was to be seen.

"God had nothing to do with it," Mom said. "I want to see those pictures soon."

"I work tomorrow," I said. "You know how Dad is about his shop."

Mom knew I meant we couldn't get in there at night, when he was home. It had to be in the day."

"Tell me where they are," Mom said.

"I can't. Dad will know. They're in one of his secret boxes."

Mom knew then that I was speaking the truth. I had to get them for her.

"Don't be too long then," Mom said, climbing off the bed and walking past me, reaching behind to zip up her dress, walking awkwardly because the panties were still stretched across her knees, restricting her gait.

"There's no more play time until I see those pictures."

Blackmail

I suffered through the rest of the week. We had piano practice every night but each time Mom wore a crisp white blouse, with a bra, and a tight black skirt. Her outfit prevented any underneath play and when I tried to hold her tits, she elbowed my hands out of the way. Mom insisted I play, but only the piano.

After each session, Mom walked slowly into the living room to receive Dad's accolades. The light shimmered off the sheer hose, her high heels tensioning her calf muscles as she moved, turning nice legs into stunning ones. Mom leaned forward in an exaggerated fashion that emphasized the jut of her behind for a prolonged moment, mercilessly recalling my memory of the same pose she had struck when my jiz filled her panties. She always turned to smile sweetly at me when she straightened up. Each night, I went to bed with an unfulfilled, steel hard boner. No matter how hard I spanked the monkey in bed as I pictured Mom in my mind's eye, it was a far cry from sliding it into her throat.

My father hung around the house all day Saturday and that night I suffered through an especially long practice, a full session in which we played each of three pieces, only one of which we would actually play at the recital.

The next day, we went to church. I hadn't been able to devise a plan to get Mom into the shop to see the pictures, or to get them out and lose Dad long enough to show them to Mom. It had only been five days and I was like a junkie without a hit, nervous, fidgety, and desperate.

Mom, however, was the picture of her old cheery self Sunday morning. She wandered out of her bedroom to the main bathroom to get things she had 'forgotten' to put back into her ensuite, clad only in the slip she would wear under her dress. Dad admonished her but she shushed him.

"Jon's in his room getting dressed. Anyway, we're all family. Don't be so silly."

To see yet be unable to taste. How cruel. Mom was ruthless in the display of her naked charms under the slip as she padded barefoot back and forth three times, slowing down as soon as she passed through her bedroom door and turned into the hallway where her audience of one waited. She pretended everything was normal though it wasn't every day that your mother dressed so, stopping to scratch an itch, high on the inside of her thigh.

I had to get those pictures. I would call in sick on Monday. I couldn't take another day.

The sermon was interminably long but finally, we were outside the church, both Dad and Mom chatting to the rest of the flock. I was eager to leave, though why, I have no idea. Nothing would happen until tomorrow morning, after Dad left and I was alone with my mother and my feigned illness. I walked to the car by myself and waited until Dad arrived with the keys.

Fifteen minutes later, I saw Mom walking toward me, managing to look sexy even in her church clothes. I suppose it helped that I had seen her this morning dressed only in the slip she wore underneath but I think I would have felt that way looking at her anyway. She's really is beautiful, I thought, the perfect balance of nature and nurture.

Wearing a pleased smile, Mom walked directly to the passenger side of the car where I was leaning against the back door and held her arm straight out from her shoulder, hand hanging limply down, the keys dangling from her fingers, a teasing smile on her face.

"Would you be so kind as to take me home, young sir?" Mom's laugh tinkled in my confused brain.

I held out my hand and the keys dropped into my palm.

"Isn't Dad ...,"

"He's going to stay and help out with some things around the church. One of the other men will give him a ride home," Mom explained, then added, "later this afternoon."

I ran to the front of the car but Mom's 'ahem' pulled me up short and I ran back to unlock the door and hold it open for her, remembering not to slam it. Running around again, I quickly started the car, slipped it into drive, and drove out of the parking lot. Mom only had to caution me once to slow down on the way home.

Once there, I ran through the house and opened the back door, waiting impatiently while Mom put her purse away, kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen.

"Come on, Mom. Let's go look."

Mom looked at me, a quizzical expression on her face. I knew she was playing a game, but I went along, knowing it was the only way to pass Go.

"The pictures, Mom. You remember?"

"Oh yes. The pictures. Let's have some lunch first."

"Lunch? Dad could be home by the time we finish. We can eat after."

"You can if you want, but I'm hungry."

Maddeningly, Mom began making some lunch. Frustrated, I ran out the shop and retrieved Dad's box, walking hurriedly back to the house as I tried to open it without success on the way. I burst through the back door and set the box on the counter where I managed to open it without problems, lifting the lid and stepping back so Mom could see the three bundles of photos.

Mom was leaning back against the counter, one knee cocked out in front of the other, holding a container of yogurt, languidly dipping and filling a small spoon to deliver the milky contents to her mouth. Her tongue flicked out to lick the bottom of the spoon each time, pulling it into her mouth in the same way she'd eaten the pie.

I held my hand out, open palm facing out, indicating the open box.

"Yes, I see," Mom casually commented, then slipped another spoonful into her sexy mouth.

I removed the first bundle and opened it, placing the first picture on the counter. Mom turned toward it, leaning her left hip against the counter, still sliding yogurt into her mouth. Slowly, I put the pictures down, one by one, waiting for her to nod before proceeding to the next. Mom looked long and hard at the last picture.

"Yes, I've seen these before," she finally spoke. "Do you think I'd look good in that color of blue?" she asked, leaving the spoon in her mouth, pointing to the lacy panties covering Grandma's pussy.

"Absolutely, Mom. You'd look awesome in any color under the rainbow."

"I'm not so sure," Mom mused after removing the spoon from her mouth, digging more yogurt onto the spoon but concentrating on Grandma's parted legs.

"We could try some," I suggested hopefully.

"Yes, that might be the way to go," Mom said, her tone still thoughtful.

Suddenly, she turned her back to the counter again, her voice picking up in speed and volume.

"Well, I didn't see a trellis," she stated emphatically.

I scrambled to gather the photos together, quickly reversing their order before binding them in the elastic again. I fished out the second bundle. Mom turned to look, leaning her hip against the counter as I stepped through the pictures, one by one.

When she saw Grandma lying on her back, twisting her legs around, even opening them, Mom turned to face the counter directly. The yogurt container was placed on the counter. A good sign, I thought. A good sign.

The best indicator was the thickening of Mom's voice right after a sudden intake of breath when I dealt the last picture. Mom stared at her mother-in-law, head flat on the grass, her bottom held high, legs closed, which only emphasized the mysterious triangle she dangled in front of her boy, its dampness clearly evident.

"You can see the trellis, can't you?" I asked, seeking confirmation that I had fulfilled my end of the bargain.


"Not so fast, sonny. Show me the rest," Mom demanded.

"Mom, maybe that's not such a good idea. Dad might be home any minute now."

"Show me," her hoarse voice cut me off.

I gathered the pictures together and secured the second bundle. I was in no hurry. It was Mom who showed impatience now, her hips tapping lightly against the counter as she pushed herself away an inch or so and then pulled herself back. I unwrapped the third bundle but hesitated to place the first picture on the counter.

Mom reached behind her neck and deftly unhooked the tiny clasp at the top of the zipper at the back of her dress. A second later the sound of the zipper descending her back was the only sound in the kitchen, except for the loud ticking of the big clock.

I put the first picture down on the counter.

Mom looked at the photo, then picked it up to hold it closer. I stepped behind her so I could both look over her shoulder and inside her dress. Unfortunately, the slip covered Mom's skin. Since she had only unzipped the dress to her shoulder blades, I pulled the zipper the rest of the way down her back, gently, so I didn't distract her attention from the picture. I loved the feel of the delicate zipper as it dipped into the small of Mom's back and then swelled out onto her buttocks. I leaned close to Mom and looked over her shoulder.

It was a picture of Grandma, about Mom's age of course, standing in front of a make-up dresser with a large round mirror. Her dress was unzipped and she was looking into the mirror at the person taking the picture whose youthful body could be seen in the reflection but the head was cut off by the curve of the mirror. The skin on Grandma's back was broken by the backstrap of a bra. Mom put the picture down and picked up the next one.

The dress had been pushed off Grandma's shoulders. It was caught in the elbow of her left arm but the right had already been pulled out of the sleeve showing Grandma's bare waist. The bra had been unsnapped so just a hint of the side of her right breast was also visible but the front couldn't be seen in the mirror. I pushed the dress off Mom's shoulders and she moved on to the next picture.

The dress was off both shoulders now and Grandma was bare down to her waist, the bra gone. Her breasts could be clearly seen in the mirror. Pert and excited, they would have been a marvelous set of tits for a woman ten years younger than Grandma must have been at that age. They looked like a matched set for Mom's, which she might have realized, going by the sharp intake of breath as soon as she saw the picture.

I pulled the straps for Mom's slip off her shoulders and then pushed both the slip and dress off her arms as Mom switched the picture to her other hand to accommodate me. Reaching under her arms, I unsnapped Mom's bra and peeled it off, again with her help. Mom continued to stare at the picture while I undressed her but when I removed the bra, her eyes flicked back and forth several times from the picture to her own breasts in the mirror. Maybe she could see some differences, but I couldn't.

I didn't see the next picture at first because as soon as Mom reached for it, I pushed her dress and slip over her hips and knelt to pull them down to her feet. Mom was wearing white stockings that ended halfway up her thigh with ribbon-like, elastic straps joining them to a lacy band circling her waist above a pair of silky white panties. I stood, looking down at Mom's bum, into her crack which was visible under the waistband stretching across her cheeks. Her rapid breathing pulled my eyes away and I looked over her shoulder, first at her bare tits hanging out in mid air capped by her long thick nipples, then at the picture.

Grandma had been naked under the dress. The photographer had stepped closer behind her, reaching around to cup a breast in one hand, holding the camera above her shoulder to take a picture of her completely bare front, a nicely trimmed bush prominent in the photo. Grandma was looking in the mirror at the tit being lifted from her chest. I couldn't tell where Mom was looking but my attention was immediately garnered by Grandma's bush and the gently sloping belly above it. The photographer's face was hidden by the camera.

I reached down to release each leg strap one by one and then knelt behind Mom to pull the waist apparatus over her hips and down her legs. Standing, I looked over Mom's shoulder again. She was still looking at the picture, comparing it to what she saw in the mirror. So was I. To help her comparison, I again knelt behind her and pulled her panties down her shapely legs. Mom lifted each foot to let me remove them completely. I stood up to look over her shoulder again.

Other than being naked, Mom looked remarkably similar to the photo. Her bush was slightly more hairy or, more accurately, not so recently trimmed. Truth be known, I thought Mom looked sexier, especially wearing the white stockings that emphasized her pelvic area more so than Grandma's stark nakedness. I pressed my bulge into Mom's bare ass.

Mom held this picture for long time. I think she was feeling a growing affinity with Grandma, understanding her better, perhaps no longer jealous of her love for her son or his for her. I stepped back and quietly removed my shirt and pants. I pressed forward, pushing my shorts ahead carefully, not wanting to disturb her but wanting to show her that she had her own secret admirer. I was surprised when Mom pushed her ass back to greet me.

"Ohhh, my," Mom sucked in her breath sharply.

She had picked up the next picture. Grandma's back was to the mirror and she was sitting down. In front of her, or behind from the picture's perspective since it was taken off the reflection, stood a naked young man, still headless. But the man's hard cock was in plain sight to Grandma's left and I'm sure that's what caused Mom's gasp because she brought the picture very close and peered at it. To me, a cock was a cock and not all that interesting. It didn't look special in any way, but I'm positive that Mom recognized it as my father's.

It was time to step over the edge. I stepped back and quickly doffed my shorts. I returned immediately but was careful to push my erection down, so that it fit it into Mom's crack and kept itself there by its own springy power. Mom kept staring at the picture. I placed my hands on her waist and began swaying against her ass, nudging my cock further into her ass.

Mom gasped again when she picked up the next picture. Though the young man's cock could no longer be seen, it was clearly right in front of Grandma's face, if not already in it. My back and forth motions grew firmer. To compensate, I put my hands on Mom's waist to keep her ass from getting away.

The next picture confirmed everything, as I knew it would. Taken from above, Dad's cock was shown just entering, or possibly pulling out, of Grandma's pouting lips. Several more pictures followed, each showing Dad's cock and Grandma's head from above. In the last photo, Dad's hand was holding Grandma's hair and his cock was completely inside her mouth. I grasped Mom's tits and tried to angle my cock up into Mom's slit and this caused her to drop the picture. She whirled around to face me.

"You can't do that, Jon. I don't care what your father did with Grandma."

I dipped my knees and tired to get my cock into Mom's pussy despite her objection.

"No, Jon. You can't," Mom cried.

I ignored her, slipping my hands down to her waist, trying to get my cock into her, saying silly things, humping away at her.

"I want to be inside you. I want to fill you."

Mom started to kneel. I held her up.

"No. Not that. I want to be in you."

"No. I can't. I just can't."

"Please, Mom. Let me."

"No."

Suddenly, Mom clasped me tightly to her, my upright cock pinched against her soft belly.

She whispered harshly, excitedly, into my ear, "Do you want to lie on me? I'll let you on top and you can rub yourself on me. Would you like that?"

Desperate for any action, I nodded, "Yeah, yeah."

Mom turned and walked to the bed. I caught up to her as she leaned one knee on the edge, poking my hardon between her legs.

"Hurry," I gasped.

Mom quickly flipped over onto her back but she kept her legs closed. I flopped on top and my hips started churning right away, scraping my cock on her belly, my balls nestling in her treasured triangle.

"Don't try to put it in," Mom warned. "If you do I'll never let you play again."

"I promise," I gasped.

I knew she meant what she said. Her belly and tits felt so wonderful underneath me I barely cared but in my mind I knew I just had to fuck her. I had to find a way get her to let me have her. I couldn't force her because there was just no way I could fuck this woman only once. I had to have her forever.

Mom ran her hands up and down my back and then grabbed my ass as I rubbed her more and more frantically, my chest rasping over her nipples and my cock scraping along her pouting belly, dipping into her navel and then beyond to the bottom of her tits. It didn't take long. I started spurting in no more than two minutes, releasing my sticky load all over Mom's belly and tits, crawling up to lodge my cock between them, squeezing out the last few drops on her upper chest where they slowly dribbled into the hollow of her neck. I collapsed, hunched over Mom, kissing her hair, her nose, her cheeks, everywhere.

"Ok, ok," Mom laughed. "That's enough."

I stopped, but moved my hips forward, trying to push my softening cock into Mom's mouth.

She blocked me at first, then said, "Ok, since you kept your promise."

Mom grabbed me gently by the balls and pulled me forward, her other hand guiding my softening cock into her warm mouth. As soon as her lips closed over me I began to harden. Half a dozen licks and swirls and I was fully hard, ready to go again.

"Oh, Jesus," Mom muttered, pushing me away. "What have I started."

I pushed back, shoving my cock back in her mouth.

"Mmmmphhhh," Mom mumbled, pushing me away again. "Be quick, your father could be home anytime."

I hovered over Mom's head, pumping her face. I didn't try to get in too deep because I thought I couldn't unless she was lying on her back the other way. I was so naive back then. But the squishy, sloppy sound soon materialized and helped speed me on my way. A few minutes later I was squirting in her mouth, Mom loudly slurping me up.

"Ok, get me the last pictures," Mom said when I was done.

I brought them back and Mom quickly shuffled through them, pausing longer for some. I knew by the sequence those were the ones where Grandma was lying on her tummy dressed only in the briefest of panties, lifting her ass up toward Dad, legs sometimes closed, sometimes wide open. The last picture was different, and Mom stared at it for a long time.

Grandma was naked in that one, on her tummy with her ass lifted in the air, legs only slightly parted but her pussy was in full view, clearly depicted, with milky white fluid oozing out of it.

"What the ..." Mom was shocked. She looked in my eyes.

"No," she cried, recognizing the need, the glint of pure want in my eyes. "No way!"

I searched deep for a flicker, a hesitation, some hint of uncertainty, but I didn't see any. Still, I wasn't going to give up and I could see in Mom's eyes that she knew it. I had the feeling she was flattered by my perseverance.

Recital and Sanctuary

Extracurricular activities were now freely accepted. I had shown Mom the pictures, letting her in on a secret, and I had proved worthy of her trust. I was justly rewarded. I came home most days to a quick blowjob before Dad got home. On the weekends, Mom let me get her outside and allowed me to lead her around the side for a blowjob in front of the trellis, sometimes twice a day.

Perhaps Mom was so generous because real piano practice was now being taken more seriously as the date for the recital was near. We truly practiced music in our sessions. But on one occasion, I followed Mom and waited on the blind side of the wall as she bowed and curtsied to Dad's applause. As soon as she came into the hallway, I took her into my arms and kissed her. The near proximity to my father must have lit a fuse because she very passionately returned my kiss and my hand was under her skirt by the time we finished.

Mom's face was very flushed and excited and, for the first time in an evening, we snuck out to the trellis where I ate her pussy. I stood and pulled my cock out, ready to put it in her mouth, but she got up from her knees and slipped around behind me. Her hands curled around my hips, one cupping my balls, the other gripping my cock. Mom jacked me off into the night, maneuvering me into position so my cum would spray all over the flowering vine now beginning to cover the trellis. Apparently, she found this very amusing.

On subsequent evenings, we practiced just as hard on our duets but partook of some extracurricular activity soon after. The next night, for example, Mom talked to Dad without going right into the living room, instead leaning against the entranceway after she completed her bow. I thought she was teasing me by delaying her departure and the beginning of our games, so I slipped my hands under her skirt and started playing with her bottom.

Soon, I had her panties stretched across the bottom of her buttocks and my hand pushed between her cheeks, rubbing along her perineum to the underside of her pussy. I was sure that would prompt her to leave but Mom kept leaning against the wall, talking to Dad, so I worked my hand as far forward as I could, enough to get the tips of my fingers into her slit with my thumb pressed firmly between her cheeks. I was surprised at the length of time she kept interacting with Dad until I realized he probably had his face buried in his book while providing minimal responses to Mom, a bad habit of his when talking to anyone who interrupted him.

In the end, I pulled Mom away. I had to bend down to get my hand under far enough to hook her pussy in a grip that was sufficiently strong to tow her backward, away from the wall and down the hall in to the kitchen. Mom only resisted enough to put up the pretense of a struggle. She didn't even turn around to accost me in the kitchen but laughed instead as I dragged her across the linoleum floor and out the back door, off the patio and around the corner to our trellis haven.

It was still light outside this late in the summer but we felt protected in our sanctuary. I sat down and pulled Mom with me. She quickly turned around and yanked my shorts down, freeing my rigid cock for a very brief time before it was engulfed by her oral attack. I pulled her skirt onto her back and dragged her panties down to her knees, reinserting my fingers as her head bobbed up and down my shaft with her signature pauses for a tongue swirl at the top and a firm lip bite on my root.

I discovered that Mom loved being fingered from the front and the back at the same time, especially a combination involving a sophisticated frontal manipulation of her clitoris and surrounding area together with the thick penetration of multiple digits from behind, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. After Mom sucked me to completion and released my cock, the force of my manipulations pushed her head over my thigh and onto the grass. I ended up twisting around to leverage my arm for heavier penetration from behind, leaving Mom's head lying sideways on the grass with her ass lifted high over her knees. Thankfully, Mom turned her face into the grass in the noisy lead up to her orgasm; we couldn't hide that by a well-positioned trellis.

That became the norm for our trellis events. Mom even allowed me to take pictures of her in that position. Before, because it got both of us even more excited, and after, well ... just because. I got many pictures of Mom's well-worked pussy, sometimes with her face still in the grass, and others with her face turned back, displaying an enigmatic smile.

I was one happy puppy. I almost forgot that Mom hadn't let me fuck her. Since I hadn't tried, I didn't know if she'd weakened on that front. By the time I thought that was a serious oversight on my part, it was too late. The recital was the next day, Saturday evening.

That night, we had another full dress rehearsal, both of us this time. We played all three pieces twice and music, believe me or not, was the only thing on our minds. When we were done, both of us presented ourselves in front of Dad. We all had a cup of soothing tea and had an early night. I fell asleep almost right away. I was exhausted. We didn't practise the next day. Mom was superstitious about that. She gardened and I went for a long drive in the countryside. We had a light supper, got dressed and went to the church.

Well, it was a superb performance, if I don't say so myself. Despite the length, the audience begged us to play another piece, unheard of for piano recitals. But we complied with their request, playing the shorter but more difficult of the other two we had practiced. The audience was awed when our performance of the more complex piece superseded the first. It was very late by the time we finished receiving accolades from the congregation and managed to go home. After another relaxing cup of tea, we all headed for bed.

Skipping Church

"Huh? What?" I muttered, unable to open my eyes.

"I said, get up, we're late for Church," Dad said, shaking my shoulder. I rolled over, trying to evade his disturbing hand.

"Can't you and Mom go alone. I'm exhausted," I whined.

"Everyone will be disappointed. They'll all want to see you."

"Dad. C'mon. I really don't feel well," I pleaded.

"You c'mon," Dad replied. "At least one of you has to go. Get up."

"I can't. Mom will. She never misses Church."

"Mom's too exhausted," Dad said. "She's staying home."

"Dad, I just can't. Anyway," I appealed to his intrinsic fairness, "it wouldn't be right for me to go alone and receive all the attention. Wait until next week when Mom and I can both be there."

"Hmmmm. You have a point. Mother worked so hard for this. Not the least of it, all that effort keeping you up for it."

I almost burst out laughing at that. Jesus. If Dad only knew what a mouthful he had just said.

"Ok, son. That's very thoughtful. I'll tell everyone you're both just too overwhelmed by their kind response last night. Ok. That's what I'll do."

And Dad was gone.

I confess, I turned over and went back to sleep but I awoke with a start only twenty minutes later.

Home alone! With Mom. Dad would be gone for hours.

I would have flung my covers off so hard they would have flown out the window had it not been so hot that I wasn't using any. Instead, I executed a spring leap out of bed to a full stance, naked except for my undershorts, poised as if ready for a martial arts battle.

Mom was alone in bed.

I started for the door. Halfway there, I began shoving my shorts down. By the time I reached the door, I was kicking them off my feet. Naked, I strode down the hallway, feeling strong and confident. My parents' bedroom door was ajar a few inches. Quietly, I pushed it open and entered.

Mom was lying face down on the bed, head sideways and directly on the mattress, the pillows pushed against the headboard. Her arms were aligned along her sides, hands flat on the bed, beside her hips. Mom's legs were parted about a foot and a half, feet turned slightly inward, soles facing up. Her breathing was regular, I noted, as I walked stealthily to the end of the bed. She was naked.

Though eager, I watched Mom for a couple of minutes in silence, admiring the wrinkles on the soles of her feet, the taper of her legs from her muscled calves to the smoothness of her thighs and the tender softness on the inside. Her unblemished back provided a backdrop for the gradual descent from her buttocks to the valley in the small of her back, which itself gave way to the shallow groove rising between her shoulder blades to flatten into the slender arch of the neck that lay under her rich, brown, wavy hair. 

I reached forward to slip my fingers around each ankle and ran my hand up to her knees and back, holding my fingers just tight enough to barely touch Mom's skin. Twisting my hands around, I scratched a long line down the center of her soles with my index fingers, regained my loose hold of her ankles, and took a return trip to knee and back. Gently, I lifted Mom's ankles and moved her feet wider until her legs were parted far enough for me to lie between them on the bed. As I neared the apex of Mom's legs, I could tell she was breathing faster, though she had provided no indication that she wasn't sleeping.

She's awake, I thought as I lowered my face between her legs, using the back of my hands to pry her thighs apart. I dropped my mouth onto the bulb bulging out beneath her bum, my nose settling in her crack.

"Mmmmmmmm." The first indication that Mom was indeed awake.

"Ohhhhhhhhh," she moaned as my tongue finished its trace outside her pussy and moved inside, the tip of my tongue prying her flaps apart and delving into her pink slit.

"Oh god," she sighed, reacting to my flicking tongue and the crooked fingertip that pushed underneath to rub her hooded clit.

"Unnnnnnggghhhh," she groaned, as I wiggled my head from side to side, exacerbating the effects of my snake-like, oral digit as it pushed deep into her wet hole.

Mom's hips rose from the mattress, The easier to tongue me, I imagined her saying. She writhed around my face, her knees working to support her wide open legs as her hips tried desperately to maneuver her pussy to ever more titillating contact. Soon, Mom's hips were so high her legs rose straight up from her knees and I dropped my finger from her clit to pinch a nipple in each hand.

I was breathing through my nose with difficulty because it was sometimes completely covered but there was no way I was going to pull my face away. Instead, I let go of Mom's tits and wrapped my arms around her waist, heaved her thighs onto my shoulders, and kneeled upright. Now there was no way Mom could have pulled her snooch from my head even if she wanted to. Up, I lifted myself on my knees, keeping her crotch tight to my face, lifting her completely from the bed, upside down, her head dangling free.

"Ahhhhhhh," I sighed as Mom steadied herself, her mouth latching onto my wavering dong.

"Ummmphhhh," I blew into her pussy as she suddenly pushed her mouth down to my root, squeezing her lips tight around the base of my super hard cock.

The rest was a rising crescendo of moans and groans as I ate and Mom sucked, my arms helping by lifting her body up and down, but I soon tired and resorted to shrugging my shoulders, finding that raising her thighs and hips was enough to suit my needs. I retained enough energy, however, to slowly thrust my cock in and out of Mom's face. My deep entry caused her to produce copious amounts of saliva and it was soon running all over my balls. The room was filled with squishy, sucking sounds and I couldn't tell which were from her mouth on my cock or my tongue deep in her cunt. Though Dad would be home in a few hours, I had a feeling today was different and I was in no rush for it to end. Somehow, I knew I would have time to reap my just reward.

When I came, I wondered if my father was singing a hymn. I convulsed in Mom's mouth and found it extremely difficult to breathe as her legs clutched my head in a rapid series of uncontrolled clenches. We collapsed on the bed, falling to our sides, still gripping one another's face, moans subsiding with the expulsion of our respective liquids. Minutes later I crawled back to my kneeling position and urged Mom to turn around. She did but instead of lying down, she straddled my closed thighs, pushing them onto my calves and my bottom back onto my heels.

"Is that what you were hoping for?" she asked.

"Not quite," I said, noting the wild look in her eyes and hoping for more.

"Did you pray for more, then?" she persisted.

The question caught me off guard. I had no answer, unsure of what she wanted to hear.

"Maybe your father remembered you in his prayers," she said, making me wonder what on earth she was up to.

"Mom, that's weird. I don't think Dad would pray for me that way."

"No, but he might have prayed that you didn't get this," Mom said, scrunching her pelvis down to rub her wet pussy along my cock and onto my balls.

My cock immediately stiffened.

Mom rained soft kisses on my face, whispering to me, "I'll bet he's praying right now, hoping your mother is strong enough, unlike his, to ward of her son's beautiful, hard cock."

"Mom, that's not fair," I complained, loving the way her pussy had opened to allow her soaked slit to fold around my shaft, rubbing all the way up and down.

"I know. Aren't I cruel?" Mom laughed. "I'm so bad, so wicked... such a tease."

She rubbed me a dozen more times.

"Are you sorry for what you did the other night, teasing me from behind like that while I was talking to your father, no less?"

"No."

I was defiant but thankfully, Mom kept up her seductive rubbing.

"So, did you pray for it or not?"

"You know I did," I gasped.

"And what did He say?" she cooed.

"He said its wrong," I panted. Gambling that I was playing the game right, going with my gut, I gasped, "He asked what kind of slut would fuck her own son for the first time, on a Sunday?"

"I might," Mom teased, rising up and moving forward until her slightly parted slit was poised above my cock, "but I have to know if my son is going to be a good boy from now on."

I could feel the heat from her cunt and my loins involuntarily tried to spring up to meet it.

"Not so fast," Mom cried, eyes dancing. "Do you promise to be a good boy?"

"Yes," I croaked, "I'll be a good boy."

"That's good," Mom whispered, kinking her hips sufficiently that her slit dipped to briefly wet the tip of my cock. "Are you going to tease me again in front of your father?"

"No," I wailed, trying without success to wet my helmet again.

"Ooohhh," Mom cried in delight. "Wrong answer."

"I mean I will, I will," I desperately corrected my error.

"How? How will you tease me?"

"I'll, uh, put my hands up your skirt and play with your ass."

"Is that all?" Mom sounded disappointed.

"No, I'll uh... touch your pussy while you lean around the corner to talk to Dad."

"Will you kiss it?"

"Yes," I gasped, thrusting my hips up and succeeding in gaining entry in Mom's wondrous slit. I almost came as her slimy lips enveloped my head.

"That's better," Mom shrieked, lowering herself, impaling my cock as she dropped. "I think I would like that," she cried, starting to fuck me, her hips digging down to get me in as far as she could.

I leaned back to brace myself on my arms as Mom rose up and down, fucking my cock. After a couple of minutes, she pushed on my chest with both hands to force me onto my back, then leaned over me and really let her pelvis churn away. I realized then that, though she had been the one holding back, Mom needed this as much as I, maybe even more. I folded my arms behind my head and smugly watched her fuck me.

She looked like a woman possessed. It was a fast, furious fuck, with me occasionally arching up, almost dislodging her and Mom grabbing my arms to pull herself down, grinding and twisting so hard I thought she would tear me off at the root, her heels digging into the back of my thighs to prod me deeper inside her. It didn't last long. In no time, she released her liquid spend, drenching my balls and scrotum, and collapsed on my chest.

I was still hard and amazed that I hadn't come. Somehow, watching her abandoned fuck, I felt in control. I turned over, pushing Mom underneath me, and lifted her legs high and wide. I met no resistance. Holding her legs by her knees, I dipped my cock and entered her. I thrust slowly in and out, alternating between watching my cock move in and out of her and then her face as she gazed steadily at me while I fucked her, expressionless.

I found the formation of a quizzical expression strangely rewarding as I squeezed her legs together, tightening her cunt on my fully embedded cock, then pushed her legs back, back, until her knees were pressing on her tits but to one side so I could see her face. I moved forward to straddle her upturned butt with my knees so I could get my cock as deep as possible in her squishy cunt. I had Mom's legs pushed so far back she seemed to be having trouble breathing but she didn't say anything, just looked at me, wondering what I was up to.

I lifted my hips until my cock was almost out and then dropped with a bang, the wet slap of my inner thighs meeting her hips ringing through the room.

"Unnngggghhhh," Mom cried.

I ground my cock deep in her pussy, then lifted high again.

"Unnnngghhhhh," she cried again, this time her hips trying to rise to complement my gouging cock.

Again and again I rose and dropped into my mother, increasing my pace slowly, very slowly, but trying to thrust harder each time. Soon, Mom was moaning constantly and gasping for breath. My own breathing was haphazard to say the least. Abruptly, on one rise, I threw my legs back and braced myself on my toes, then continued with the rise and drop, feet together, then apart. Several minutes later, I returned to straddling Mom's thighs and pummeled her mercilessly, fucking her harder and faster until I imagined we were a blaze of motion.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh," I cried, my shout melding with her orgasmic scream.

I was coming incredibly hard, spurting one huge gush after another. Releasing her legs, allowing them to spread apart, I looked down to watch, surprised that my jiz wasn't oozing out of her cunt. I pulled out and a stream shot onto Mom's belly. I watched it land then let my eyes rise to Mom's face. She was watching too. I grabbed my cock and squeezed the head to shut off my errant hose, then waddled on my knees until I was straddling her tits. Releasing my cock, I pointed it at Mom's face and let the final, weak spurts splash on her chin and neck, then pushed my slick, throbbing dick across her mouth until she had licked me clean.

Afterwards, we kissed and nuzzled, whispering our special love for one another. I began to get hard again and tried to roll Mom over onto her tummy but she pulled away.

"Please, Mom. I need to have you from behind," I pleaded.

"We can't. Your father will be home soon."

I noticed how she referred to Dad as 'your father', as if distancing herself from him.

'My father' was ecstatic when he got home. We were the stars of the parish, deserving of the expensive dinner that he lavished on us at the best restaurant in town where we ran into several of our new fans.

Both Mom and Dad had a little too much wine so I drove home. Dad was sleepy in the car on the way home, but Mom wasn't. Dad had not taken my place in the back seat. Instead he got in the passenger side, crowding Mom into the middle, draping his arm around her shoulder. He soon nodded off and, with her husband's arm still affectionately clasping her shoulder, Mom's hand strayed to my crotch, her long piano fingers stretching down to scratch my cock and balls.

I was stunned when she unzipped me and slipped her hand inside to fondle my cock but I was scared silly when she fished me out and starting stroking my shaft. My father could have woken at any time but Mom nonchalantly moved her hand up and down, unfussed, like she was preparing dinner. When I pulled into the driveway, my cock was still out when Dad lifted his head and looked at the house in the headlights. Motherfucker! But Mom calmly urged Dad to get out as he groggily shook his head and then opened the door, turning on the dome light. I was freaking out but Mom simply covered my cock, pressing it flat against my unzipped pants as Dad clambered out of the car.

In the house, Dad went straight upstairs, asking Mom, "Are you coming?"

"Yes, dear. I'll be coming in just a minute," then tittered for no apparent reason.

Mom pulled me by the hand, through the kitchen and out the back door, around the side to our sanctuary. I looked up to see the light on in my parents' bedroom just before Mom turned to face me, reaching down to insert her hand in my fly and roughly yanking my stiff cock out.

"This is your moment," she panted. "This is your dream."

With that, Mom spun around and fell to her knees, immediately flopping forward onto her hands, and then falling to her shoulders, her head twisting to the side.

"Hurry," she gasped, reaching behind to pull her dress up and over her hips.

I fell on my knees behind her, grabbed her panties and ripped them off her ass. A second later I was inside her, fucking her hard from behind, staring into her rabid eyes, both of us too far gone to smile. I lurched up onto my feet to get better leverage and pounded the snot out of her ass.

Slap, slap, slap... slap, slap, slap.

I almost came but managed to hold it back, swaying slowly, grinding my cock inside her pussy. I walked forward, forcing her down onto her knees, and started fucking her hard and fast again.

Slap, slap, slap. Slap, slap, slap.

Mom was grunting. Actually grunting.

I shoved her forward again, flat on the grass. Straddling her thighs, I worked my tool to and fro, quickening, ever quickening, knowing I was on the final run, pounding her butt, shoving my cock into her cunt from behind as hard as I could.

When I finished, I realized we had been moaning and groaning loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, at least at night. But Mom didn't move. She turned her head sideways and commanded me.

"Go get your camera."

Pulling on my pants, I ran up to my room. As I passed the open door of my parents' bedroom, I heard my father in the bathroom.

"Is that you dear?" he called.

"No, it's just me Dad," I yelled.

As I hurried back, Dad emerged from the ensuite just as I passed the door.

"Is your mother coming?" he asked.

I paused before answering. "Yes," I assured him.

"What are you doing with the camera?"

"I just want to take a picture of Mom before she comes. She looks so beautiful tonight I want to remember her exactly like she is."

"Good boy," Dad said. "Get some good ones."

"I will, Dad," I promised.

I ran downstairs to do what my father told me to do, except after Mom came, not before. I took some excellent pictures.

"That's what you really wanted, isn't it? Mom asked the next day, looking at the picture I had uploaded onto my computer.

There she was, on the screen, bending over on the grass with her head twisted to one side, dress thrown over her back, ass up in the air with legs slightly parted, with a white, milky fluid oozing out of her ravaged pussy, just like the picture of Grandma I held up next to the screen.

"We're just getting started, Mom."

"Good," Mom replied, tousling my hair. "Come on," she said, tugging me away from the computer, "your father should be asleep by now."

Epilogue

"You built a trellis? Whatever for?" Dad asked, needing to further understand my explanation for trespassing in his shop.

"I don't know, Dad. I remember that Grandpa and Grandma had one at their house and I felt this sudden urge to build one. So there it is," I waved my hand in the general direction of the trellis.

Dad walked over to it and stood looking at it for a long time. Then he turned and walked back to the house, speaking as he passed by.

"Good job, son."

My transgression was forgiven.

After that, Mom and I couldn't trust our sanctuary, for Dad could suddenly show up at any time. In fact, he began using it far more often than we did. On the weekends, and some evenings, Dad would disappear and we'd find him sitting in a lounge chair which he'd dragged around the side, staring at the trellis.

One Saturday afternoon, Mom and I watched him from the vantage point of the balcony off my parents' bedroom. We were lying on the thick cushion from one of the balcony's two lounge chairs, peeled from the chair and laid flat on the balcony, near the edge. Dad's back was to us. Every once in a while, he would wipe his eyes, as if drying a tear.

"You see," Mom whispered. "His mother was the love of his life. If only she realized that. It's sad really."

Mom had told me that Grandma's convictions never would have allowed her to have sexual relations with her son after he married. That was a big no no. Dad probably never realized that, and Grandma likely never told him, until it was too late.

I slid my cock slowly into Mom's pussy until I was fully in, then dug in farther, pushing her ass cheeks, and nudging her head forward until her hair brushed the guard rail at the edge of the balcony.

"I guess I better get as much as I can while the getting's good, then, hey Mom?" I threw an extra shove against her ass. Mom grunted.

"Why?"

"In case you cut me off," I pulled out and lunged into her cunt again.

Mom dropped her face and moaned into the cushion. As I withdrew, Mom lifted her head and pushed herself back from the edge, raising her hips to allow her ass to follow me back. She twisted her head back to look at me.

"You just thank your lucky stars your Mom is more selfish than your Grandma."

Mom dropped her forehead onto the cushion but kept her eyes on me.

"Now you watch him, and give it to me, hard."

I gripped her by the hips, and rocked her hard the very next thrust, pleased that she found it necessary to muffle her face in the cushion. I didn't watch Dad the whole time I banged Mom. I liked to see her head bumping against the railing and I loved looking at her legs, covered in the white stockings she often wore as a signal that she was ready for me to find her somewhere in the house. Mom knew that a simple skirt over white stockings, with no panties, was a guaranteed recipe for a Mom full of her son. 






