Beyond the Borderline

byCPBaudelaire©

I was jerked back to reality by the slap of Mom's palm on the door.

"I'm ready now, Mr. Impatient," she snapped. "You better get out here pronto, or I'm not going to take you. Let's get this show on the road!"

Quickly stuffing myself back under cover, I washed my hands and stepped out into the hallway. Mom was right by the door, arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot, still clearly pissed about my indiscretion.

"Let's go," she said curtly.

Our ride to the practice field was made in tense silence. I knew I was in trouble and Mom was letting me stew in my juices for a while before she lowered the boom.

When we arrived at the parking lot, she put her arm across my chest, checking me before I could escape the car. Reaching out to me with her other hand, she cupped my chin and forcibly turned my head to face her.

She spoke quietly, but firmly, in measured tones, her calm demeanor actually emphasizing her displeasure.

"Ricky, are you a little boy or a young man?"

"I'm not a little boy," I replied somewhat sullenly.

"No you're not. Young men don't behave like little kids, now do they?"

"No, Mom."

"As a young man, you have certain responsibilities. The most important of these is to always treat your Mom with courtesy and respect. That is, of course, assuming you want me to treat you like the young man you are becoming. Do you want me to respect you, to treat you fairly?"

"Yes, Mom," I sighed, rolling my eyes.

"Well then," she continued, pointedly ignoring my attitude, "That includes always knocking before you come into my room from now on. You will respect my privacy," she declared, steel in her voice. "If it happens again, you'll be grounded for a month and no allowance, no Nintendo and no movies. Are we clear?"

Suitably chastised, I nodded my acquiescence.

"I'm sorry I was rude Mom. I won't do it again."

"Apology accepted," she acknowledged, her demeanor returning to normal.

"Mom, you're not going to leave, are you?" I asked anxiously.

Smile returning, she squeezed my hand reassuringly. "I wouldn't miss my son's first start for anything. I was planning to follow Mom and Dad here anyway, until our plans changed."

"Hop on out and get ready. I'll find a parking space and see you shortly."

Later, I saw Mom in the stands, hooting and hollering along with all the other parents. When the second half began, I saw that Gramps and Nana had made it as well. It felt really good to have my whole family rooting for me.

It would have been amazing if I had played a great game, but I didn't. I did do the next beast thing, though – I didn't screw up. That was enough for me. When it was all over, I got a slap on the back from Gramps and big hugs from Mom and Nana. We went out for pizza after that, completing what turned out to be one of the most important days of my life.

I never got another chance to see Mom undressed or in her underwear again after that day. I suspect that she had at least some inkling of how my seeing her had affected me and was very careful not to give me the opportunity for another eyeful.

It didn't really matter though – the damage had been done and I was changed for good.

At that point, I was totally focused on trying to get another glimpse of Mom. Any opportunity was to be seized upon, but Mom was very careful since that first wonderful incident. Failing to get any more chances, my emphasis gradually shifted. Of course if you can't see Mom in the flesh, the next best thing is those wonderful garments that cover her special parts.

I remember the first time I snuck into her room and rummaged in her underwear drawer. Even though she was long gone for a day's work in the City, I was so nervous, I shook like a baby's rattle. Running my trembling hands over the lacy cups of one of her brassieres, I became hard as a brick. Rubbing my fingertips over the shiny smoothness of one of her nylon granny panties, I almost came without touching myself.

When I pulled my shorts down and got my cock out, the moment I slid my glans across the gusset of her briefs, I shot a huge load all over my hands and the panties. I almost passed out from the pleasure and the excitement of doing something so forbidden, so nasty. When I finally came down from orbit, though, I knew I was in trouble. My cum was everywhere, coating my hands, splooged in her panties and dripping on the carpet by her dresser.

I was immediately assailed by terrible guilt. Not only was I a pervert, who whacked off into his own mother's underwear, I had made a huge, disgusting mess in her bedroom. I was doomed and damned all at one instant. Damned for my sinful behavior and horrible thoughts and doomed because I knew in my heart that I would never be able to stop doing it again and again and again.

Frantically, I rushed to obliterate all traces of my transgression. I cleaned myself up and dashed to the laundry room, rinsing Mom's undies in the sink and then throwing them in the bottom of the hamper, out of sight and mind. I flew back upstairs with a sponge and some dish soap and feverishly scrubbed my jizz out of the carpet. I dashed back downstairs to put the cleaning stuff away and then sprinted back to Mom's bathroom, grabbing her hair dryer, which I then used to dry the damp spots on the carpet where I had cleaned my sticky spend out of the shag.

Trembling with anxiety, I bolted to my room, locking the door behind me before I flung myself on the bed. Then I waited, overwhelmed with guilt. I waited for Mom to come home and discover my horrible actions, throwing me out of the house. I waited for Gramps to come home and beat me within an inch of my life. I waited for God to smite me with a thunderbolt, punishing me for my sin.

After about ten or fifteen minutes of waiting for the sky to fall, I realized nothing was going to happen. After thirty minutes, recalling the silky feel of her panties on my dick, I got hard again. Five minutes later, I was back in the laundry room, fishing the still-damp panties from the hamper and retreating to my room for another round of jacking off.

Thus began my relationship with my mother's underwear. Within two weeks, I knew every article by heart; what size (34C bust, size 7 panties), what location in the drawer and the usual order of use. I never escaped the feelings of guilt and shame when I spunked her panties, but I simply couldn't help myself.

At first, after I saw Mom that day, I couldn't get the visions of her breasts and panty-clad ass out of my head. I was constantly sneaking glances at her, hoping for a flash of thigh or a brief peek of her brassiere through the gaps between buttons in her blouses, or, holy of holies, getting a look up her skirt to see her panties. The more I looked, though, the more I noticed everything about her appearance – how she combed her hair, put on lipstick or, rarely, eye shadow, what her sense of style was for her work clothes, what kind of pantyhose she used and also her perfume.

I guess at that point, I was beginning to appreciate her as a whole woman for the first time and I surely loved what I saw. It's a given that a guy that age spends a majority of the day with thoughts of jutting asses and jiggling breasts running through his head, but I imagined all that and saw so much more in my mother.

Her arms were shapely, with only the slightest hint of softness that comes with her age. Her legs are...well, to me they're magnificent. Perfectly proportioned for her height, with exquisitely turned calves, they are almost an anachronism, a modern day reincarnation of the great pins of the 50's movie stars. A comparison to Cyd Charisse would be close to the mark in my mind, but I confess a complete lack of impartiality.

As long as I am admitting to bias, let me describe the miracle of skin and muscle that is her ass. It is, in a word, womanly. Not a bubble butt, not adolescent, nor compact. It is beautifully proportioned to the rest of her anatomy, but is...lusciously full, mobile, superbly pear-shaped, flawlessly smooth and topped by a sensational, very sensuous, flared waistline. Whether encased in denim shorts, tight Capri pants or even plain slacks, it is an absolute vision of promise and an invitation to totally forbidden thoughts.

Just to be clear, I would not walk on hot coals to place my hands upon it. For that privilege, I would wade through waist deep lava while gargling sulfuric acid and razor blades. For a chance to caress it, kiss it and otherwise worship it, I would sell my soul, in an instant.

Yeah, I like my Mom's derriere just a little.

I think these features are attractive enough when seen as mere components, but it's how they all work together that makes her beautiful to me. Perhaps because I am used to looking at her every chance I get, I pay more attention, but I think her face is marvelously expressive. Her deep blue eyes can positively dance with mischief, humor and laughter. When she is truly angry with me, a grey coldness creeps in and they dissect my guilty thoughts and actions like scalpels. Fortunately, I have not been on the receiving end of that particular gaze very often. I can recognize at least 8 or 10 different smiles, ranging from "come get your chicken soup" to "come hither right now." That latter smile is why I'm telling this story, of course.

Mom is an extremely observant and perceptive person. She's also very cautious and detail-oriented, as well as being a bit of a control freak, but she has to be in her job. She's the youngest and first female partner at March, Briggs and Dufrense, a moderate sized law firm in the City. She got there by being smarter, nice-tougher and generally harder working than most of the other associates. Once she was hired on, it only took her 4 years to make partner. She specializes in corporate and international law, which is well suited to her careful, meticulous nature. She's a member of the Bar in New York, New Jersey and unusually, a couple Canadian provinces as well. In addition to loving her, having a crush on her, lusting after her greatly and generally adoring her, I admire her tremendously.

As you can probably tell, I have been hopelessly attached to this woman since forever. Of course, the lens of puberty completely changes the focus and perception of a growing boy, and I was no exception. What was once "When I grow up, I'm going to marry you, Mommy!" at 6 years old becomes furtive trips to the laundry hamper for used panties at 13. Is there anything that can compare to the slight residual warmth, intoxicating scent or taste of the gusset in a freshly discarded pair of panties? Not to a young, hyper stimulated teenager, I would guess.

It was at middle school time when I really began to notice Mom as a woman. My voice was deepening, my bones were aching from my growth spurt and there was hair growing in unexpected places. Equipment that was once single purpose developed very interesting and downright startling new capabilities.

Mom almost certainly knew what was happening before I did, and of course she had taught me all the basics at a much younger age, to satisfy my insatiable curiosity. Nana, Gramps and Mom were all kindly tolerant of my withdrawn surliness and generally antisocial interactions as testosterone overran my synapses, but they kept me on track. Gramps was great a getting me settled into my new role as a real guy and second man of the house. Some of that instruction was real old school stuff, very much nose-to-nose and occasionally resulted in prolonged discomfort when sitting, but we got through it okay and I was the better for it.

Academically, I was a good student in school. I had to really bust my ass to excel in math and science, but with much pain and sweat, still managed to do well in these areas. As you might imagine, when it came to grades, Mom took no prisoners. Somehow, though, she always found the right combination of motivations to carry me through any difficulties. She never used her own considerable accomplishments as a yardstick against my own efforts, I think because she knew I would do that myself. There was an unspoken assumption that, of course, I would give a maximum effort in any subject I studied. She had high expectations, but also seemed to have a sixth sense for what represented my best efforts, and never criticized me when she knew I had done my best on something and had come up a little short. I loved her very much for that.

Towards the end of middle school, Mom was gearing up in her push to becoming a partner at her law firm and I was spending more and more time on homework. Our chances to spend time together seemed to be dwindling to nothing. I think both of us sensed this subconsciously, but for me it showed in a general increased crankiness and more arguments with Mom. After a particularly irrational outburst, which centered around difficulties with my math homework, Mom sat me down and slowly, painfully extracted the truth from me.

"All right, Ricky. What is your major maladjustment here? You can't tell me that all of this venom you've been spewing lately is just from problems with quadratic equations. You've been exceptionally rude and ungrateful lately and I want to know why. Are you having problems with someone at school? Is it something to do with girls?"

"Mooommm!"

Girls and sex were a very sensitive topic. I was thinking about them constantly. If I went more than fifteen or twenty minutes without fantasizing about fucking some female, it was a rare event. At the time, I was nursing simultaneous crushes on two different girls in my algebra class and secretly lusting after my French teacher, Mrs. DuPre and the lady next door, Myra Gordon. A few months before, I had discovered the delicious secrets of Mom's used panties as well, which was a source of tremendous excitement as well as secret self-loathing. I felt like such a perv whenever I spunked in them, thinking of her, but I absolutely couldn't help myself.

"I thought so. I had a feeling that the testosterone level has been rising around here lately," she chuckled. "You can't fool your old Mom when it comes to this stuff - you're a glass of water to me," she said, with a kind, all-knowing smile.

"God Mom, you're embarrassing the crap out of me!"

Placing her hand on mine, she gave me a squeeze and said softly, "Ricky, the very last thing I want to do is to make you uncomfortable or embarrassed, but I have noticed some changes lately. You know I won't judge you on this. I just want to know that you're okay. Okay?"

"Okay, Mom," I sighed. "It's really hard to talk about though, I have so many confusing feelings about it all."

"Why don't you start by telling me who it is you think is pretty?"

"Well, in my math class, there's Sally McPhee and Grace Kim. They're really cute and nice," I said in a rush. "I've talked to them a little bit, a couple of times, and I've seen Grace smile at me once."

"I don't know Sally, but I met Grace and her mom and dad at the last parent-teacher day. If her mother is any indication, Grace is going to grow into a gorgeous young woman. She also struck me as a very kind, genuine person. You've got very good taste, hotshot!" she concluded.

That made me feel real good to hear Mom say that, and I felt a little better opening up to her. "Uhhh, there's a bit more though, and it's this stuff that has me more confused," I confessed uncomfortably.

Mom looked at me a bit speculatively and pursed her lips in thought, finger rubbing absently under her lower lip.

"Well," she drawled, "Unless I miss my guess, I'm thinking that you are having more -shall we say- explicit thoughts about someone, and this is what's troubling you."

I stared at Mom aghast. She seemed to be looking through a window into my most private feelings. It felt as though she was reading my mind and knew everything about my secrets. It was at once alarming and strangely, a little bit exhilarating.

"I've seen you staring at Myra Gordon's bottom, you know."

Myra was our next-door neighbor. "Jesus, Mooommmm!" I felt like crawling into a hole and pulling it closed behind me.

"What about that is not perfectly normal?" she inquired, in a puzzled tone. "Surely your friends talk about who's hot and who's not, right? It's also entirely okay to be attracted to older women too, you know. I've overheard you talking with Jack Hamilton about Mrs. DuPre's 'enormous rack.' I also heard you threaten to punch him out when he said I was hot. (That was so sweet of you, by the way.) Your stick-in-the-mud old mom knows exactly what a 'MILF' is," she concluded, an amused twinkle in her eyes.

If I could have blushed any harder at that point, I would have burst into flames. "Mom, you're killing me! I'm soooo embarrassed!"

"You're an absolutely normal young man," she stated emphatically. "How on earth could I be upset that you feel this way about girls and women? I just hope that when you have more serious questions about girls and relationships that you'll continue to talk with me. There's no topic that is off limits there - if you'll be honest with me, I promise to never, ever judge you and I'll give you the best practical advice I can, if you want it."

"Thanks, Mom. It's just really hard to talk to someone about this stuff, but I'll try to be honest."

Mom took my hands in hers and looked at me seriously.

"Are we still best friends?"

Swallowing with difficulty, I simply nodded.

"Then you know that you can absolutely trust me, right?"

Smiling and touching my cheek, she continued, "I know sometimes that a guy needs to talk with another guy about some of this sex related stuff, but I also know that Gramps is not exactly the easiest person in the world to approach when it comes to this kind of thing."

Mom was right on the mark about Gramps. In many ways, he fulfilled a lot of the needs that a growing boy has for a father figure, but when it came to women and sex, I guess his worldview was colored by the experience of Mom's teenage pregnancy.

"The only thing I'm going to hold you to is being honest," she said kindly. "I know how hard it can be talking with your old Mom about this kind of thing, but please don't keep any secrets from me - there is nothing, I repeat, nothing that you could say which would upset me in any way. Even if you told me you liked boys more than girls," she concluded.

"Ewwwww, that is soooo gross, Mom!"

"I happen to know that's not true, anyway," she said in a matter of fact tone. "But I do believe that there's still someone you're attracted to that you haven't told me about, right?"

My secret shame burned within me like a small welder's arc and my tongue felt like it was hewn from granite. I wanted so much to say what was really on my mind, but I was terribly afraid of what would happen. Head bowed, swallowing with great difficulty, I tried to speak but somehow, a twenty-pound rock had materialized in my throat, choking off the forbidden words written in my heart.

Reaching across the table, Mom put her hand under my chin, forcing me to look up. I couldn't meet her eyes. Speaking quietly, encouragingly, she tried to coax my acknowledgement.

"It's okay, sweetheart. I promise I won't be mad, whatever you say, whoever it might be. I promise."

Try as I might, I was mute with fear. Finally meeting her gaze, lower lip trembling, I gave up, shamefully shaking my head.

Taking my hands in hers, Mom put me out of my misery, softly saying the words I couldn't bear to speak.

"It's me, isn't it, Ricky?" she asked gently.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I was choked with emotion. "God Mom, I'm soooo sorry, but I can't help it! You make me feel so good when I think about you, you're so beautiful and sexy, but I know it's wrong, so wrong! I feel excited and awful at the same time - I'm a horrible pervert! How can you even look at me?"

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byCPBaudelaire© 85 comments/ 446270 views/ 316 favorites

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