URL: http://web.archive.org/web/20130807080250/http://www.literotica.com/s/the-rambler-ch-02
Author: alwayswantedto
Title: The Rambler Ch. 02
Tags: The Rambler Ch. 02, alwayswantedto, mother son incest, mother son sex, mother sex, son sex, facial, tease, teasing, reluctance, mother/son

Summary: At the movies, again.

Copyright © 2009, alwayswantedto. All Rights Reserved.

All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 or older.

* * * * * * *

As you can no doubt imagine, Tim and I were eager to compare notes about our experience
at the drive-in but in the aftermath we were both showered with interest from girls
who previously hadn't given us the time of day. It was overwhelming, not in numbers
but the sheer unexpectedness of it all. To our credit, it soon rang hollow and neither
of us were predisposed to respond favorably, partly because we were confused about
the new choices and also wary about the validity of the options.

Our procrastination led to a defensive reaction of feigned disinterest from the best
of our new fan club, a trend which accelerated into waning real interest with the
growing scuttlebutt that we had simply been one-time lucky with a couple of college
girls that had since saw the error of their ways. The rumor settled into high school
lore when the Rambler failed to make an appearance at the next two drive-in features.


In any event, by that time we had both independently decided that we were really more
enamored with our moms which we discovered when we finally did get time to really
talk, first discussing the fact of our regressing popularity, and then quickly moving
on to a more important topic, our moms.

In some ways, it seemed, the past few weeks on that front were similar but in other
respects they were quite different. My home life continued as if the whole drive-in
episode had never happened while Tim's fell short of his boyish dreams yet offered
more than a glimmer of hope. In fact, it shimmered in comparison to mine, making mine
look like purgatory.

This was hard to fathom, to say the least. Both of us had gone further with our mothers
than we had with any other girl. Tim, who had started the ball rolling, had necked
longer and more intensely than ever before and then rubbed himself and his mom to
orgasm. And I, unbeknownst to him, had gotten farther than he, actually sliding my
cock into Mom's mouth and humping her face until I left a deposit that, as far as
I was concerned, marked my territory. All this was forgotten in the ensuing weeks
and I now wondered if, in our whirlwind triumph at school, we had neglected and possibly
lost the true treasure that had always surrounded us.

My belated attempts to get Mom alone were mostly rebuffed and when I finally managed
to corner her she made it plain there was nothing to talk about. She didn't say anything
but her body language was not welcoming and whenever I mentioned what was on at the
drive-in she simply said the car was mine and she'd make sure there was no argument
from Dad.

Tim reported a similar reaction from his mother. We were both bummed out talking about
at the drive-in where our lonely appearance was duly noted by our peers and confirmed
the rumor about being dumped. The following week, we kept more or less to ourselves
but I noticed that Tim seemed less bummed out than I. It wasn't until half way through
the movie the following week at the drive-in that he owned up that things had improved
for him on the home front. He may have experienced a setback but at least he was still
on the game board.

Apparently, at the Sunday night dinner table the previous week, Tim started talking
about the movies we'd seen with our moms at the drive-in. His father, of course, wasn't
the least bit interested but something made him persist when he saw how uncomfortable
his mom was with the topic. She actually blushed and looked down at the table when
he first started talking about the movies. Only he noticed since his father was listening
to the TV which was still on in the living room and soon got up to leave, cued by
the start of some program.

Tim continued with his description of the first movie but despite his father's absence
and, he thought, any reason for discomfort, his mother still avoided his eyes while
quickly finishing her own meal. As soon as she was finished, she got up and began
clearing the dishes from the table. My friend kept talking while he watched his mother
fill the sink with soapy water, his eyes catching every move she made.

Chewing the last bits of his meal, he realized that his mother probably wasn't joining
her husband in the living room in fear of her son following and pursuing his distressing
conversation. Tim, a more competitive sort than I, sensed an advantage, and decided
to stay in the kitchen to pressure his mother, reminding her of their previous intimacy
and shared indiscretion. He could tell that his discussion and visual attention was
flustering his mother. He wondered, he told me, whether she was just afraid that he
might let something slip about what had happened, or if the memories re-ignited the
sexual excitement of that night. He got up from the table, bringing more dishes from
the counter.

"Here, I'll help you with these, Mom."

"No, no. You go watch TV with your father. I can manage this," Millie quickly took
the dishes from Tim, verbally shooing him away.

Undeterred, Tim snagged the dish towel that was hanging from the oven door handle
and stood behind his mother, admiring how she filled the back of her skirt. "It was
one of those knee-length skirts with heavy pleats starting just where the material
crests the upper slope of the butt," he said, eyes kind of glazing as if he was picturing
it in his mind. I formed a visual too and felt a stirring in my loins as Tim continued
with his story.

Millie seemed aware of her son's attention and grew even more agitated, washing glasses
much more quickly than normal, even putting them into the dish rack without rinsing
them as she usually did.

"So I calmly rinsed the first glass and dried it, then did the same with the next
one," he said. "I felt a strange sense of control," he told he, "feeling no need to
rush. On the third glass, Mom started rinsing the dishes but she still washed them
faster than usual."

Tim said he kept describing the movies, now on the second feature, and his mother
eventually calmed down, slowing her pace until she was washing at her normal speed.
Tim had fallen behind and the rack had filled so his mom had trouble finding a spot
for a bowl. That's when Tim casually took several clean dishes off the rack and put
them back in the soapy water.

"I don't think you got these clean enough," he said to his mom.

His audacity staggered me and from the grin on his face as he related this to me,
it was still amazing to him.

"What happened?" I asked incredulously, expecting some strong rebuke from his mother
or, even worse, a call to his father.

"Nothing," he replied, a tinge of surprise in his voice. "She didn't say a thing.
She just started washing them again, really slow."

"You're kidding?"

"I kid you not," Tim laughed. He paused then, regarded me with a serious look on his
face.

"What?" I implored, knowing something was coming but with no idea of what. "Come on,
give."

"That's when I did it," he said, as if 'IT' was somehow obvious.

"Did what?" I resented having to pull it out of him, all the while realizing that
the effort would increase the value of the prize.

"Patted her ass," he revealed.

Tim had reached down and lightly patted his mother's skirt several times, allowing
his palm to briefly mold over her right cheek, cupping it gently and almost holding
it as he leaned toward her to say, "That's better," as if he was the one in charge.


I couldn't believe my ears. Evidently, there hadn't even been a small rebuke. His
mom, he said, acted as if nothing had happened. So then, after each dish was washed,
Tim patted his mother's ass. It wasn't long, he said, before he simply kept his hand
on her butt and massaged her cheek after each dish, ignoring the dishes in the rack
and leaving them to dry on their own. When his mom finally finished washing all the
dishes, even after he returned several more for re-washing, Tim said he pressed his
raging boner against his mom's skirt, kissed her on the cheek, and whispered, "I'll
help you with the dishes tomorrow night too, Mom."

Tim explained that this continued for the rest of the week. Every night, after his
father left the kitchen, Tim and his mother would set about doing the dishes. There
was no need to return any dishes to the sink. Millie washed everything thoroughly,
taking extreme care to be sure each item virtually sparkled before it was placed in
the rack. Tim had so much time between dishes that he found a need to employ both
hands, rigorously exploring all of his mother's backside. Eventually, he stood with
his boner firmly pressed between his mother's skirted cheeks, allowing the dishes
to be placed in the rack while his hands explored her blouse, leaving no inch of its
spongy expanse untouched.

By Friday, despite progressing to intense stand-up body rubs accompanied by serious
ear and neck nibbling, Tim was unable to convince his mother to go to the drive-in
with him again, but he did extract a promise, he said, beaming with pride.

"What, what?" I cried, in eager expectation, awaiting some magic words to match his
radiant features.

"She said she'd go again if your mom would too."

I struggled to breathe as that bomb sunk in. It was up to me, then? I couldn't even
approach my mom and I was supposed to convince her to go? My excitement, built up
so high listening to Tim talk about his week with his mother, crashed to the ground.
I said as much to Tim.

"Don't worry," he said. "Mom will ask. You just have to get yours to agree."

I remained unconvinced.

"If she doesn't say anything," Tim went on, "just say I said my mom wanted to go to
the drive-in and I won't take her alone unless you bring your mom too."

I was only half convinced.

"It'll work, don't worry about it," Tim exuded his typical confidence. Except for
getting dates with the good looking girls at school, things almost always worked out
for Tim.

"Ok," I replied, uncertainly.

That was Saturday. After that, I ran every time the phone rang but hung back, waiting
for someone else to answer. Whenever it was for mom, I lurked nearby out of sight,
listening. But there was no call from Millie, at least none that I heard, though I
couldn't be sure they didn't talk during the day when I was at school. By Wednesday,
Tim was tired of me bugging him about it.

"Mom promised she'd call. Don't worry about it."

That was fine for him. He got to shove his dick into his mother's skirt every night
after supper and grope her tits and last night, he took joy in telling me, she let
him hump her butt until he came in his pants.

I had started helping with the dishes every night since Sunday but couldn't bring
myself to make an advance on Mom, afraid I'd ruin everything if Millie did call. And
though I brought up the subject of the drive-in, Mom neither responded nor seemed
bothered by the topic. Her dishwashing was as fast and efficient as ever and I didn't
have the courage to put any of her finished products back in the sink. So the week
went on. Wednesday night turned in to Thursday and then Friday. Saturday was hell.
I called Tim in desperation when there wasn't a single call all morning and at lunch
Mom didn't say anything.

"Have you heard anything?" my voice pleaded for a positive response.

"Your mom hasn't said anything?" Tim seemed surprised.

"No. Why?"

"Well, Mom said she talked to her yesterday. You sure she didn't say anything?"

"Positive," I countered, my heart, and dick, sinking. The answer must have been no.


"Huh," Tim replied, sounding mystified rather than devastated the way I was feeling.


"I'll look into it," Tim promised.

I hung up, got some lemonade from the fridge and wandered out to sit on the patio.
I was only dimly aware when the phone rang several minutes later though I'd jumped
at every ring for the previous week. It rang and rang. Finally, it stopped and Mom's
cheery voice sang out from around the corner where the phone hung on the kitchen wall,
"Hello."

"Oh, Millie. Hi."

"Yeah, sorry. I just got so busy, I forgot."

"Oh, I don't know, Millie. I don't think so." Mom's voice suddenly lowered, "Things
got so carried away last time."

I slumped back into the lounge. There was a long pause, punctuated by a few 'mmhmmms'.


"I know, Millie," Mom's voice lowered even more. "I'm fine with it but just as a one-time
thing," she almost whispered.

Another long pause. I sunk deeper into the cushion.

"Well, why can't you just go by yourself?" Mom's voice returned to normal.

"You're kidding. Millie, you need to get hold of yourself."

Another long pause broken by, "I know," several times.

"Yes, they are handsome boys."

I perked up.

"They think they got dumped?"

"Well ok. But just to be seen ... so it looks like they're still on."

"Alright. Ok, Millie, I said yes ... tonight? I can't. Wayne's boss is having another
party. We have to go." Mom didn't sound enthused by the prospect.

"Next week, then. Ok. Talk to you." Mom hung up.

I stayed rigidly still in the lounge, trying not to make a sound. I didn't want Mom
to know I'd overheard her conversation and hoped she didn't come outside. Thankfully,
the sound of her feet faded as she walked away.

I was ecstatic and disappointed at the same time. Mom was coming to the drive-in but
not until the next week and clearly she wasn't into fooling around, but my spirits
still rose. Mom may not want to do anything but there was no way, not after what Tim
had been telling me, that there wouldn't be hot action to listen to from the back
seat. If I could just get Mom to sit close to me as if we were on a date -- and Millie
had clearly pitched that as an excuse -- then one thing might lead to another. A lump
suddenly appeared in my pants. Down boy, I thought, my excitement rising. We have
to get through the next week without ruining things.

* * * * * * *

SLAM!

The sound of the door jolted me upright in bed. My head jerked around as I strained
to see in the dark, then sat still to listen as I realized that was futile. Sleep
fogged my brain and I could only sense the anger in the loud exchange of words and
nothing of their meaning. Did I say exchange? I should have said barrage, a stream
of uncharacteristic vehemence in my mother's voice, including swearing, I'm sure,
though I couldn't separate individual expletives.

The sound of shoes being tossed was followed by firm stomping up the stairs.

"I don't care if you were drunk," Mom yelled.

There was some kind of garbled response in my father's voice. Stomp, stomp, stomp.


"So what! Just because those assholes were fawning all over her doesn't mean you have
to too."

I could tell from Mom's voice that she had reached the top of the stairs and had turned
to confront my father.

"Shhhhh," he said.

I could tell just from that, Dad was pissed.

"Don't shush me. Do you know how foolish you all look, trying to be so witty and trying
to sneak look up that ridiculously sluttish dress?"

That drew a drunken laugh in response.

"Ohhhhh. You're such an asshole!"

Slam. The bedroom door. Dad's feet stumbling down the stairs. I guess he was sleeping
in the spare room tonight. I guess Dad and the other salesmen were flirting with the
boss' wife again. I had heard this all before, but never this bad. Dad's boss and
his wife would get tipsy and he would start bragging about his young trophy, a woman
from the other side of the tracks who had been popular with the boys in Mom and Millie's
school year, because she was available to party after the other girls had been taken
home. She had made it good when she met and married Dad's boss, after his first wife
died of cancer, and she wasted no opportunity to rub her new position in the face
of those who once spurned her friendship. She was a voluptuous woman but had a tacky
and coarse way about her that many men found appealing, especially when drunk.

It sounded like Dad had gone too far and embarrassed Mom. I made myself scarce the
next day, spending the day driving around by myself. Tim wanted to hang around home,
the bastard. I called home in the afternoon and explained to Mom that I had gone for
a drive and lost track of time so I would be late for dinner.

"I would have liked to do that today," she said. I cursed myself for the lost opportunity
to be with Mom all day. "Don't worry about dinner, dear. I didn't make anything. See
you when you get home. Drive safely."

Man, she must really be mad at Dad not to make Sunday dinner. What had he done?

I had stopped for a burger on the way home so the house was dark when I arrived home
even though it was still early in the evening. I let myself in and quietly tiptoed
to my bedroom. My parents door was closed tight which was unusual, except for the
night before when Mom had shut Dad out. Was he still sleeping downstairs in the guest
room? Wide awake, I read a book rather than go downstairs to watch TV, fearing an
encounter with either of my parents. I didn't hear a single sound until I finally
went to bed.

Even though I was up early my father was still gone when I came down for breakfast.
Mom was sitting on one of the tall breakfast stools along the counter that ran perpendicular
from the back door and divided the kitchen from the stairs leading down to the basement.


"Morning Mom," I greeted her rather cheerily for me, perhaps in a subliminal attempt
to raise her spirits for our mutual benefit.

"Morning," Mom mumbled past her coffee mug just before it met her lips, not looking
up from the morning paper.

I busied myself getting a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, setting them
on the counter at the far end from Mom, leaving an empty stool between. Getting the
milk from the fridge, I walked around the counter to Mom's side to sit down, talking
as I moved.

"Dad's not up yet?" I asked in a surprised tone.

"Gone," her answer was terse and abrupt, and she still didn't look up.

That was fortunate because I missed the bowl as I poured my milk spilling some on
the counter before I recovered and stumbling onto the stool, half missing the seat.
The thing I hadn't noticed while preparing my breakfast was that Mom had come downstairs
with just her nightdress on. Normally, she was either dressed or tightly wrapped in
her floor length robe and fluffy slippers. Daring to cast my eyes her way again since
her head was still buried in the paper, I followed her legs down to her feet, both
sans slippers and bare, one hooked into the lower and one in the upper rung joining
the stool's legs.

I looked quickly away when the newspaper rattled but Mom was simply taking another
sip of coffee so my gaze gravitated back to her legs, in particular, the outer one
whose knee was raised so her foot could rest on the higher rung. This allowed Mom's
elbow to rest just above her knee, taking the weight of her arm and the coffee cup
she held in her hand. It also tensed the muscles in her leg and lifted it high enough
for me to see the bottom of her thigh, visible because the sharp angle up from her
hip let the nightdress, originally almost knee length, slip down to her upper thigh.


I loved the form of the 'S' curve that fell in a slow arc from under Mom's knee, swelling
with the burgeoning flesh of her legs covered by ever softer skin until it reversed
itself and disappeared under the hem of her nightdress. I was still looking, spoonful
of cereal in my mouth, when Mom spoke.

"I know," she said quietly. "They're not what they used to be."

Mom was holding her mug and looking right at me, her reference to her legs clearly
showing she knew where I was looking. I got the lump out of my throat sufficiently
to swallow the cereal in my mouth without choking but not enough to speak calmly,
but that was ok because Mom carried on, looking down at her leg as she spoke. I liked
that because it allowed me to look back at her leg and Mom didn't pull her nightdress
up to cover it. In fact, she lifted her foot up a little, exposing her leg even more,
purportedly to help with her self-examination.

"My skin looks so loose now, not tight like it used to be. No wonder your father and
his cronies were trying to look up that slut's dress, she wears it so short."

Stunned, I watched as Mom dropped both hands to the top of her legs and pulled her
nightdress back almost to her hips in demonstration. Though her legs were too tightly
pressed together for me to see between her legs, her right leg was raised sufficiently
for me to follow the back of her thigh down until I saw the line of a pair of pale
blue panties stretched across the bottom of her legs, provoking an immediate response
in the same general area of my own groin.

"Mom," I stammered, "your legs are better than hers," I said, inadvertently indicating
that I knew exactly who she was talking about. Unfortunately, Mom picked up on my
slip.

"Who's legs?" she asked, looking up.

"Well ... uh, Dad's boss' wife, I guess. She's the one that Tim's Mom always complains
about." I looked away awkwardly, then back at her, my eyes falling to her legs as
I continued. "Anyway, if you wore dresses as short as she did, those guys wouldn't
give her a second glance," I said, nodding as if my own confirmation would strengthen
my own theory.

"Really?" Mom sounded pleased, looking down, leaving me free to admire her leg. She
pulled her other foot up to the higher rung and, with both feet raised up on her toes,
swung away from the counter, her legs parting a good eight inches they moved. I was
staring straight down a long channel to a swath of pale blue slashing through a bracket
of tanned brown legs that somehow conveyed soft, yielding tenderness.

"Do you really think so?" I could sense that Mom was looking at my face to verify
the truth of what I was saying but I kept my eyes firmly fixed on her panties, somehow
feeling it was allowed and knowing there was not a shred of dishonesty in what I was
saying.

"Absolutely, they're awesome." I sensed rather than saw Mom smile. Did she know I
was staring at her panties and not her legs?

"Well, your father should be smart enough to know that. He should be more like his
son," she huffed, snapping her legs shut and swinging them back towards the counter,
picking up her coffee mug and looking at the paper now spread flat on the counter.
I finished my breakfast, taking as much opportunity as I wished to look at Mom's legs,
still mostly exposed because she had neglected to push her nightdress back to her
knees, leaving me with the view I had initially enjoyed. Periodically, Mom muttered
to herself which, together with the fact that she never turned the page, I surmised
indicated lingering hurt and deep anger at my father. When my cereal was finished,
I left quietly and didn't say anything except for a muted goodbye as I left for school.


Dinner was a quiet affair that night, neither of my parents seeming to be in the mood
to talk. Dad finished dinner quickly and disappeared into the living room. I was about
to escape to my room too when Mom asked if I was going to help her with the dishes
again like I had last week, adding a loud comment about how was nice it was to have
one useful man around the house. I guess the fight was still in full force and effect.


I started clearing the dishes from the table but Mom left. "I'll be right back," she
said.

Mom returned only minutes later. She must have spilled something during dinner because
she had changed from the slacks she'd been wearing into a loosely pleated skirt that
fell short of her knees. But that didn't make sense. If Mom had spilled something
on her slacks, she would have finished the dishes first before changing. As I waited
while she filled the sink, my eyes traced the slender columns of her legs and I remembered
the exciting view I'd had that morning between her thighs.

Mom spoke as she dumped the cutlery into the filling sink.

"I was talking to Millie this afternoon." She paused as if waiting for me to say something.


"Oh yeah," I said, keeping my voice as even as I could though my breath was catching
in my throat. This was it.

"She really wants to go see a movie again .. at the drive-in."

"Oh, yeah," I said as if this was news to me though my voice was breathier and I was
afraid I would give myself away.

"This Saturday."

"Uh huh." I may have only got the second of those two syllables out loud enough to
hear.

"She said Tim is getting slagged at school because the kids think those college girls
dumped you guys."

Mom's body started shaking as she turned the water off and began scrubbing one of
the glasses she'd put in on top of the soaking knives and forks. I watched her pleated
skirt shake and my thoughts jumped to the quivering mounds of flesh that caused such
tantalizing movements. Those sexy, jiggling things moved as if they had a mind of
their own, jostling seemingly unencumbered beneath the plaid covering.

Tim's description of his mom's pleated skirt suddenly seared into my brain. Had Mom
changed into that skirt on purpose, for my benefit? Had Millie told her about what
she was letting Tim do?

Fuck, I had a boner already. Awkwardly, I moved my legs around, finally reaching down
to realign my cock into a more comfortable position. She couldn't be wearing anything
under that skirt. There was no way those pleats could move like that if her bum was
constrained, even if she was wearing bikini panties that only reached halfway up her
butt.

"What?" I said. Mom had to repeat her question. I had missed it.

"I said, do you want me to help you too?"

I hesitated, somehow not ready for what I had been waiting so long to hear.

"I don't have to, if you don't want me too," Mom interpreted my pause incorrectly.


"No, I do. Please Mom, that would be great." I stepped close behind her and put my
hands on her shoulders. "I'd love your help," I lowered my voice, allowing my groin
to graze the back of her jiggling skirt.

"It won't be like last time," Mom responded. "We'll just make it look like you're
out with your college girls again, nothing more." Her shoulder stiffened, dampening
my rising lust, but she didn't pull away from my touch. It was the tone of her voice
that pushed me away, a definite signal that I was presuming too much.

Though I kept my distance while drying the dishes I kept my eyes on Mom's enticing
buttocks and she seemed quite happy to keep moving it around in this new eye-catching
fashion. I guess I was welcome to look.

And that is how the week played out. Though I didn't approach Mom again I was sure
my touch would have been no more welcome but the visual show continued all week despite
warming relations between my parents. On Friday, Dad left after dinner for his regular
bowling game with the boys and Mom disappeared upstairs, returning moments later dressed
for bed, robe and all. I guess there was to be no jostling tease the night before
the big show.

Mom filled the sink, dumping the cutlery in to soak followed by the glassware, as
usual, but she didn't immediately begin washing. Instead, she stood with her hand
on the tap, waiting for the suds to near the top edge of the sink and when it did
she shut it off and walked over to the table where she stopped. Her elbows bent as
she lifted her hands in front of her to fuss with something and seconds later I understood
what as she lifted her robe from her shoulders and shrugged it down her arms, slipping
it off and draping it over the back of a kitchen chair.

Mom turned back and walked toward the sink without looking at me. She was wearing
a nightdress, much like the one she'd worn the past Monday morning but a little shorter
and with just ribbon straps over the shoulders to hold it up. It appeared to be the
only thing she was wearing, a conjecture that was confirmed as Mom leaned against
the sink and started washing the dishes, the thin nightie covering her bottom leaving
absolutely no doubt that there was nothing constraining her quivering cheeks.

I was in heaven. I stared in awe up and down Mom's legs, but mostly at her quivering
buns, as Mom seemed to take special care again to ensure that each and every dish
was impeccably clean. No. I lied. I snuck a few glances around the side to watch the
side of her breasts bounce up and down with her vigorous arm movements, their cleaning
action seeming to intensify whenever they sensed my close scrutiny.

Towards the end, my ardent attention leaving me in quite a fix, I leaned close to
Mom to thank her for helping me out tomorrow night at the drive-in. Of course, I let
my throbbing, bulging jeans press in to feel the warmth of those oscillating globes
and was again treated to my mother's mild rebuke.

"You're welcome, dear, but remember that it's not going to be like you think, the
way it was last time. That was an accident and it won't happen again."

As before, Mom didn't push me away and this time I didn't voluntarily pull back. Her
tone was less intimidating but, even so, I wasn't about to be put off of this gloriously
soft and warm flesh by just a stern voice.

Nevertheless, I was surprised when Mom allowed me to continue pressing against her,
my bulge worming its way deeper into her softness. I kept my hands to myself and held
my ground, even gently nudged further in, while continuing to dry the last remaining
dishes. Mom didn't object, washing the last couple of dishes no faster, or more slowly,
than she had the rest. Then, after she finished the last dish and to my further delight,
she waited for the sink to drain instead of moving away to wipe the counters. I dried
the last few dishes as slowly as I thought I could get away with but she didn't complain,
using the wet cloth to wipe the sink and counter within easy reach, cleaning until
I hand done the last dish. Only then did I reluctantly pull away, when there was no
other obvious reason for us to be standing so close together.

My groin felt suddenly cold as we parted and the wrinkly indent in the back of her
nightie attested to the firmness with which I had pressed into the soft flesh underneath.
I stared at Mom's thinly clad ass, admiring the shadowy line defining the division
between left and right cheek, even being able to make out through the thin old material
where her crack ended and spread like a butterfly at the fleshiest protrusion where
her panties likely rested when they were present. Mom stayed still for a moment, as
if letting me have one final look before she turned and walked slowly to the table,
lifting her robe and continuing her exaggerated gait until she silently disappeared
into the living room.

She was sitting on the couch wrapped in her robe watching TV when I finally managed
to walk without hurting myself.

"Thank you, sweetie," she called as I headed upstairs to my room.

"No problem, Mom," I replied hoarsely.

I spent the night upstairs spanking my monkey, hard.

* * * * * * *

We were running down the road in my sweet Rambler, the four of us, listening to the
Stones rocking out of the new cassette deck that had replaced my aging 8-track. Mom
and Millie seemed to like the music as much as Tim and I, something you never would
have suspected if you saw either of these women outside the confines of this car.
Magic was in the air, that's for sure. I could sense it in the carefree laughter and
joyful appreciation of the great music filling the car as we less-than-hurtled down
the road.

Tim and I had met our moms at the mall on the edge of town where they left Tim's car
and climbed into the Rambler. The moms had said they had some errands to run first.
My initial disappointment watching Mom get out of Tim and Millie's car dressed in
a light but long, full-length summer coat dissipated once we got underway. Everyone
was in a good mood and our moms acted more like twenty year olds with a couple glasses
of wine under their belt than two women soon to turn forty. I was high as a kite just
knowing where I was going, my mind filled with dreams of what I hoped could happen.
I was giddy.

We passed through the gate without incident, trying hard to maintain a more somber
mood so the attendant wouldn't think we actually had been drinking. I dropped Tim
off at the concession while we proceeded to the same area in which we'd parked before.
We were early, so Tim arrived only a few minutes after we had parked and placed the
speaker in the passenger-side window. Mom had already taken Tim's place in the front
seat, Millie waiting for her son in the back, as before. Except this time Mom insisted
that I sit by the door, a reminder that she was indeed not going to be cornered. So
ok, my hopes were dashed at little, but my raw enthusiasm for this evening couldn't
be squelched.

Tim entered the driver-side door with an armful of drinks and popcorn which he handed
out before getting in the back, shutting the door and locking it, and reclining the
front seat so he and his mom could see the movie, should they decide to actually watch
it this time. I reclined our side of the seat too but not as far back so that Mom
would have to stay close to me. Mom locked the passenger door and then turned away,
her back twisted my way so she could watch the movie and also easily look into the
backseat to chat with Millie. Tim and I said nothing, both eager for the movie to
begin and not interested in anything else. That was when Millie surprised us all by
pulling out a bottle of red wine and four plastic beakers.

"Your Mom and I got a head start this afternoon," she laughed, at least partly explaining
the carefree attitude in the car trip here, "and since we're going to be here for
at least four hours, you two can have a couple of glasses too. But only two," she
warned. "The rest is for Mary and me."

I could hear the clink of two other bottles contacting each other in Millie's big-bag
purse, together with the tinkle of her and Mom's laughter. The pop was set on the
floor as we all began sipping wine while we waited for the movie to begin. The fermented
grapes eventually loosened my tongue and Tim's too and we were all gaily yacking when
the drive-in lights shut down and the screen filled with previews of the coming attractions.
We were already on our second beaker of wine.

Tim and I quit contributing to the conversation and the chatting between the women
gradually subsided until there was only the odd comment for the first fifteen minutes
of the movie proper. I noticed Mom turn toward the backseat as if to say something
but then she looked back without a sound. I looked over to see Millie wrapped in her
son's arms, his head obscuring her face but the movements suggesting a long, tongue-entwined
kiss was well in progress.

Tentatively, I placed my hand on Mom's shoulder, exerting the slightest pressure to
pull her back closer to me but she resisted and I dejectedly resigned myself to watching
the movie, hard as that was with my friend enjoying the fruits of our joint labor
so enthusiastically in the backseat, apparently not shy about the sounds leaving the
back of the car.

Twenty minutes passed by. I couldn't get into the B movie, the first of a triple-header
horror set, though Mom seemed enthralled. I couldn't match her teasing all week with
the long, form covering coat she was wearing. Why couldn't she have worn a thin, loosely
knit yet figure-hugging sweater like Tim's mom was sporting, the kind of thing she
so often favored, the kind of thing a quick glance in the backseat confirmed allowed
easy access for an exploring hand. That lucky bastard.

"Mom?"

"Mom?"

"Shhhhhh."

I touched her shoulder, lightly pinching the material of her coat.

"Aren't you hot?"

"Hmmmm? ... oh, yes, now that you mention it." Mom's elbow pulled back so her hand
could start fiddling with her belt but she soon stopped, becoming engrossed in a scary
scene on the big screen.

I slipped my hand forward and rested it on Moms arm, by her waist.

"Would you like me to do it?"

Nothing. Mom stared at the screen.

"Mom?"

She nodded absently, pulling her elbow back to let my hand slide around to the front.
Gently, I worked the buckle loose and pulled the belt out, then began slowly undoing
the large buttons, trying not to disturb Mom. When the last button was undone, I carefully
pulled the coat apart to loosen it on her shoulders, then tugged it away bit by bit,
with Mom adjusting her weight to help. It took a long time but I finally managed to
slip the sleeve off Mom's right arm and peel the coat away, laying it on the seat
between us. I reached around Mom's front to tug the sleeve down her left arm, pinched
between Mom's side and the seat cushion. Though more awkward, Mom shifted her weight
to accommodate my effort, never taking her eyes from the screen. I was acutely aware
of each time my forearm brushed across the front of Mom's breasts, covered by the
familiar soft sweater. Finally it was done and I reached behind her to pull the coat
from underneath.

"Fold it please," Mom said, "so I can use it as a pillow."

Dutifully, I folded the coat in half three times and placed the wadded bundle under
Mom's head and watched as she shifted herself around to get comfortable, turning her
back more to the seat than squarely toward me. I could now see her face more easily
and I took time to enjoy the slight creases on either side of her mouth that she hated
so much, a growing mark of her maturity. I let my eyes wander lower then, over the
pale orange, loose knit sweater that covered her pert breasts that were, it was true,
also showing their maturity by lying flatter on her chest and hanging lower, closer
to her tummy, than I'm sure they once did. But I bet those nipples never stood so
proud and firm, thrusting strongly into the sweater that encased them so inadequately
without the added support of a bra.

Mom was still watching the movie but with her face only turned party away from me
I'm sure she was aware of where I was looking. I had the distinct feeling that she
was purposely looking away so I could take my time to enjoy her body, to savor it
after my long wait. Had she covered up and made me wait just to make it taste sweeter
in the end. My optimism at that moment fervently believed it and I loved her for it.
Tim may have had the joy of digging right in but his cock couldn't have been as hard
as mine at that moment, not without the benefit of the magnificent tease Mom had just
executed. She would have made a tremendous flyfisher.

Just as that thought flitted across my grey cells, Mom moved her legs, a movement
that caught my eyes and dragged them down over her short white skirt to her knees,
as far as I could then see. Short white skirt? My eyes retreated a foot. Yes. Mom
was wearing a very short, pleated white tennis skirt. God, I stiffened painfully in
my jeans. As I looked, Mom's hips lifted slightly and her legs opened, barely an inch,
but they parted nonetheless. What an incredible sense of timing she had. My cock hurt.


I leaned closer and put my arm tentatively across Mom's waist and gradually lowered
it across her tummy. I snuggled into her side.

"Ricky?" Mom whispered her affectionate name for me.

"Yes?"

"Promise you'll be good?"

"I promise."

Mom smiled, then said, "Please try at least."

"I will," I replied earnestly, but she was already turning away to see the movie better,
twisting into my arm, lifting her back from the seat. Before moving in to fill the
space behind her, I pulled my arm away from her waist and, as surreptitiously as I
could, I unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, pushing them down to relax the pressure
on my poor tool, down until the waistband was below my shorts. Only then did I snuggle
into my mother, replacing my hand around her waist, tucking my arm in until it grazed
the bottom of her slightly sagging, mature breasts, wiggling until my hips were lined
up behind hers.

I kissed Mom's cheek and nuzzled her neck. She turned her head half toward me.

"Ricky?" she whispered.

"Yes?"

"Remember your promise."

"I will," I assured her, believing myself.

"Good boy." Mom pushed her mouth up, waiting for a kiss.

I obliged, our first long, loving kiss of the evening, the first in weeks. A most
delicous, memorable taste.

When the kiss ended, Mom's left tit, the one closest to the seat, was cupped firmly
in my hand, its nipple digging into my palm as if the sweater wasn't there. I braced
myself for her reaction, mind searching for a winning response, but Mom simply looked
up at me in the darkness.

"Did you have a good week?"

"What?" she caught me competely off guard, I had no response for such a normal everyday
question.

"Did you mind helping me this week? With the dishes," she explained further.

"No, not at all," I replied lamely.

"Good. I like your help."

Mom turned her face back to the movie and, at the same time, pushed her bottom back
against my underwear, causing an immediate, swelling response. My reactive surge was
met with firm, if somewhat spongy, resistance. And despite the quelling efforts of
my mind, that unruly bulge made its presence known in sporadic throbs for the rest
of the movie. Oh, how I wished I could retrieve my arm to lift that skirt, for I was
curious to see what kind of panties she was wearing, if any. But I daren't let go,
for I was now squeezing that breast and even pinching its nipple, tugging it through
that thin sweater, and Mom was letting me. I didn't want to lose that, or the feeling
of her bottom pressing back whenever I pulled and rolled her exquisite, hard and long
nipple.

Mom turned to me for another really long set of deep kisses during which I managed
to lower my hand and slide it up underneath her sweater to play with both breasts.
How fantastic to be with a real woman instead of a girl. A woman who, instead of giggling
and trying to bat my hands away, arched her back to push her tits deeper into my hands,
who relished the way my fingers pinched and tugged her nipples, lifting the full weight
of her tits right off her chest. A woman that moaned into my mouth as my knee threaded
between hers, my thigh pressing tightly against her pussy, loving the return thrust
of her hips rubbing her pubes along my leg.

The movie ended shortly after that and as the lights came on so people could more
easily find their way to the concession, I realized that I had been totally unaware
of what was transpiring in the backseat. I had been completely engrossed in my own
affairs.

Mom turned onto her tummy and looked over the reclined seat to talk to Millie, holding
her beaker out for Tim to refill it with wine, as he did for his mother. He and I
abstained while the mothers talked. We didn't even talk to each other. We were each
engrossed with the woman in our own end of the Rambler.

I tickled Mom's back as she talked, swooping in slow circles the length and breadth
of her soft skin, caressing her neck and dipping into the concave hollow of her waist,
tracing her shoulder blades and delving into the groove of her spine to the small
of her back, trailing my fingertips along the waistband of her skirt. It was on one
such trip that I unexpectedly embarked upon a new path, my finger tracing a line straight
down the middle of Mom's skirt, along the crevice between the twin rises of her buttocks
until it fell off the end of the pleated skirt into the canyon formed by her closed
legs, and then ticked the backs her thighs down to her knees.

She parted her legs on the return trip, allowing my delving fingers to reach more
of her tender inner thighs, welcoming me under her skirt where I tickled the bottom
of her panties where the fleshy part of her cheeks escaped their confines. Eventually,
I slid up and over. Mom paused only briefly, in mid-sentence, the only sign she yielded
that her son was now brazenly caressing her ass.

I thought she allowed it because the others couldn't see and a protest would only
call attention to the fact of it. So minute after minute slid by and I slipped and
slid, poked and prodded, cupped and scratched, exploring every inch of Mom's perfect,
womanly bottom. I discovered that Mom was wearing a pair of thoroughly modern panties,
the kind only models wore back in those days. They barely reached over the crest of
her buttocks, stretching tightly across her cheeks, creating the entrance to an intriguing
cave which I explored with my longest finger.

In an attempt to reach further into this dark crack, the crook of my long finger tugged
Mom's panties down the lower slope of her bottom, a retreat she tried to stop by twisting
her hips in an effort to pin her panties more tightly to the seat but this only helped
my effort by rubbing the arches of her panties over her hips, the easier for them
to slide down.

In a final quick slip, the waistband of Mom's panties burst down her bottomly slope
and crashed into the crease between thigh and cheek, my fingers slipping underneath,
between her legs. As if in a movie, no pun intended, the lights suddenly dimmed and
the second movie started.

Mom quickly twisted back onto her side, clamping her legs shut and trapping my hand.
A minute passed while everyone shifted about new positions, except for me. I was rigid.
Mom turned to face me and I braced for the rebuke that hadn't been delivered before
but was sure to arrive now. I prepared to defend myself. Those dark eyes sought mine.


"Kiss me," she whispered.

I hestitated, unsure if I'd heard her correctly, the words still sinking into my brain.
She opened her mouth, to speak again or to receive my kiss, I don't know. I kissed
her, sinking my tongue into her mouth, aware that my hand was still firmly clamped
between her legs, reaching through to press against the sweet, hot dampness of her
pussy.

As our long kiss continued, my fingers became hot and slippery, allowing them to move
more easily, though in such tiny movements, with the slight rocking motion of our
bodies as we sought to meld our mouths together. When we finally stopped kissing,
Mom turned her face back to the movie and I kept my hand where it was. After a bit,
sensing that this transgression was to be allowed, I slipped my hand from behind,
slid it up and over her thigh, and nestled it back into place under her panties, this
time from the front with my fingers slipping deeper into her groove and my palm cupping
her mound.

I squeezed my prize in a pulping massage and, as Mom continued to watch the movie
as if nothing was out of line, I nestled into her neck and whispered in her ear.

"If you were mine, I'd parade you down the street in this short skirt knowing every
man we passed was staring at your gorgeous legs, to the ire of the women who knew
their men were torn between watching your legs or your breasts bursting against your
sweater, converting it from a mere clump of material into a work of art."

And while I whispered, I slipped my slippery fingers all over her soaking, rubbery
lips, teasing them apart and even dipping inside, briefly tasting their clammy grip.


"And at parties, while the women gathered in the kitchen to ready the evenings treats,
I'd hold you back with the men, standing behind you and sliding your dress slowly
up your thighs until just a glimpse of your panties showed. Then I'd wait, with the
others, until you spread your legs to show them what you kept only for me, that no
other man could uncover."

Hokey, I know but it just sprang from my lips and Mom thrust her pussy hard into my
milking hand. She turned her face toward me and I prepared for another long kiss.


"Put your fingers inside me," she rasped.

There was no hesitation, I was sure of what she'd said. I pushed in first one, then
a second, and finally a third. I twisted and squished my fingers around in her cunt,
then slowly began surging into her, digging in until my knuckles spread her puffy
lips, knarling, rubbing, grinding.

"I'd drop your dress before the women came back. None of them would suspect anything
since your man had been there with you the whole time, but all the men would envy
me, glancing furtively at you for the rest of the night, wishing it was them and not
me that got to fuck you that night."

"ohhhhhhh, god, ricky. Mmmmmmmm, ugghh uhhh."

Squish, squish, squish. She was so fucking wet. My fingers were fitting right inside
her stretched pussy, easily twisting back and forth.

"You're the most fuckable woman in the world."

I quickly slipped my tongue inside Mom's mouth, muffling her moans, and started furiously
frigging her cunt. When I broke the kiss, her moans continued unabated and I looked
down to watch my hand twisting around in her sloppy pussy. I was amazed. Mom had twisted
toward me and my invading hand, almost onto her back. She had pulled her feet up to
brace their arches against the front corner of the seat and spread her legs as wide
as they could go. She was hot, hot, hot.

I slowed my frigging hand and began teasing Mom's clit with my thumb. Rubbing, pressing,
circling, spreading. Over and over and over.

"Fuck," I whispered, again and again, spaced out, until she moaned and moaned with
each utterance, and then, finally, repeated it.

"Fuck," she whispered, voice ragged and hoarse, "fuck."

Quickly, I pulled my hand away, to a wailing moan, flipped my shorts down and tucked
the waistband underneath my swollen balls, slipping my hips over her right knee and
guiding my throbbing pole toward her slick, begging slit, frantically yanking her
panties up to her knees with my free hand.

"Fuck," I whispered, nudging my head between her puffy lips.

"Fuck," she whispered, her cunt grasping.

"Fuck," I groaned, sliding home, all the way, no stopping for go, cock lunging, on
the attack.

I paused when I was in to the hilt and lifted Mom's hips toward me for a tighter fit.


"Ohhhh, Ricky," she whispered, her arms circling around my head. "Fuck me."

I'm a good boy, and I did as I was told. I started slowly, pulling out almost all
the way and then all the way back, trying to take my time but the pussy of an aroused
woman can derail even the best of plans. It wasn't long before I was shoving in and
out as fast as my gasping breath could support.

Both Mom and I were moaning loudly. The thought of being discreet or shy with Tim
and Millie right there didn't cross my mind. I kept rocking Mom up the seat and toward
the middle of the car, almost pushing her off onto the back of the driver's side which
was reclined further than our side. After pulling her back several times, I got up
on my knees and pulled her ass off the seat by her hips but this soon proved too difficult.


Mom pulled off and sank into the seat and arched her legs far back, closed together
with her feet braced on the roof of the Rambler. What a sight that was, with her ass
and the tender backs of her thighs outlining her swollen pussy. I straddled her haunches
and pushed my cock deep inside her to a very loud, gutteral moan. Hers, mine -- I'm
not sure. Probably both.

I thought we'd been fucking hard before but that was nothing compared to the serious
pummeling that happened with her womanhood so vunerably presented to the stiffest
cock I had every manned. I had to hang on to the back of the seat to stay upright
and barely managed to even then. That poor Rambler -- I don't know how its crappy
suspension survived.

I exploded inside Mom, gushing for what seemed like an eternity but was probably less
than a minute until, finally, I sank over her in total relaxation, cock buried, until
she signaled her discomfort several minutes later. I fell off to the side, still gasping
for breath. I'm sorry to say she had to ask me for something to block my spunk from
dripping all over the seat. I found some napkins and she cleaned herself up.

"Do you guys want to smoke a carton of cigs?" Millie's laughter peeled into the front
of the car. "Wow ... and I mean wow," she said. "That was really something."

Mom laughed and said something. I was too exhausted to speak.

"Jeez, Mary. I'm surprised you didn't push a hole in the roof. You guys should make
porn movies."

Our timing was perfect because the movie ended and the lights suddenly brightened.
People began exiting their cars and heading for the concession. Mom turned onto her
stomach so she could talk to Millie more easily and I flipped her skirt up onto her
back so I could play with her ass again. I used my foot to push her panties, circling
her ankles, off her feet. She let me touch her wherever I wanted and didn't protest
when I urged her thighs further apart. I was fascinated to see my white spunk oozing
out of her pussy.

Something about that sight made my cock suddenly harden and without thinking about
the fact that Tim and Millie were facing forward or that the drive-in lights were
still on, I clambered to my knees between Mom's legs, leaned way in and inserted my
cock into her pussy from behind, shoving my spend back where it belonged.

"Don't mind us," Millie laughed as I began humping Mom in earnest.

"Jesus, Rick. Already?" Mom huffed one word at a time between thrusts. She pushed
her ass up and back to make it easier for me and when I increased my tempo in response,
she spread her arms and clutched the back of the reclined seat to stop me from rocking
her right onto Tim's lap.

I didn't care what anyone thought. I was fucking this beautiful woman no matter what.
I kept humping faster and faster, and harder. I didn't notice when the lights dimmed
and the movie started. All I knew was that it was dark when I came.

I had barely got off Mom and pulled my jeans up when there was a metallic knock on
the window next to me. After a brief panic, I rolled it down a couple of inches. It
was the drive-in manager, holding a long flashlight..

"Time for you to go," he said, pulling the speaker box off the window. "Start 'er
up and get lost. Don't come back," he added, hanging the speaker on the post. At least
he didn't shine his light into the car.

I got out and walked around to the driver's side to several hoots and hollers. By
the time I started the car and turned the lights on, horns were honking and the hooting
was widespread. We exited the drive-in, banned, to a loud chorus, Mom and Millie keeping
their heads low.

After that, our reputation as cocksmen was assured at school.

On the drive home, Mom sat close to me, one arm circling my back at waist level, the
other toying with the front of my jeans. Tim and Millie were similarly silent in the
back but whenever the light of passing cars allowed, I noticed Millie's eyes regarding
me intently through the rear view mirror.

