tagIncest/TabooSoaking Mom

Soaking Mom

byalwayswantedto©

All characters are 18 years or older.

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Where to start? I don't know. Well, my mother was a legal secretary, one of many attractive women working in a large law firm. Most of the women were on the lookout for a husband and dressed to the nines, in full battle competition, going breast to breast with their coworkers. A lot of lawyers were aware of the situation, of course, and used it to their advantage to get laid regularly while being careful not to pay a price. What most of those lawyers didn't realize, being blinded by lust and their own arrogance, was that many of these less educated women were a whole lot smarter and more predatory than they were.

Although young and pretty like the rest of those legal secretaries, my mother had something a little extra, in addition to brains, that allowed her to snag one of the most promising attorneys in the firm: a stunning aura of confident sexuality. And so, Mom became Dad's second wife.

Their marriage, and the breakup of my father's first, led to something neither of them foresaw: Mom's expulsion from the firm. However, Mom was scooped up by a rival firm and worked there until she decided to stay home to raise my sister and me and, of course, to partake of the leisurely life of the reasonably well-off.

Some years later, my bored mother returned to work as a legal secretary in a posh firm that sometimes partnered with my father's firm in a senior-junior relationship. Seven years have passed since Mom's return to professional life and though her commitment has been reduced to four hours a day, three times a week, she still likes to keep a foot outside the home.

I have several theories on why. At first, after my older sister clued me in to the original context of Mom and Dad's romance, and her and my observation of the wild goings on at our parents' parties, I thought Mom might like the opportunities work provided for extracurricular dalliances. However, my sister put that one to bed right away, pointing out that for all the outrageous behavior we had observed at the many parties in our home, not once had Mom ever been seen to behave inappropriately within the context of their group, at least in the way I was implying. And my sister had it on good authority from a friend of hers who was the offspring of another lawyer in the same crowd, that neither Mom or Dad misbehaved within her sight either. Stoned, drunk and silly, yes, but cheating, no.

Nevertheless, I continued to maintain my late-night fantasies, though these I did not discuss with my sister. It was hard not to, especially when Mom came home from work dressed in the tight leather suits she favored. They ranged in color, from black and brown to blue and green, and were matched with various tops but invariably involved short skirts that showed off her long, shapely legs. Few women had legs as nice as Mom's and, though she was no longer quite as pretty as she once was — lines had started to form at the sides of her mouth and her skin wasn't taut and fresh like a twenty year old's — there was still something about her that strongly drew men's attention.

My latest theory about Mom's desire to work was based on this magnetic attraction she held for men. Mom had been used to it all her life and I reasoned, despite her dismissive behavior to such admirers, she actually thrived upon it.

My father probably chased Mom so hard partly because everyone else in the office wanted her, and he must have kept wooing her for years afterward to keep her away from the wife-swapping, or at least, the lets-turn-a-blind-eye exchanges common in the social life of lawyers at the time. My mother, I'm sure, would have been a choice target for the up and coming predators at Dad's and especially Mom's more upscale firm.

My theory was supported by Mom's own behavior. Despite complaining about having to dress up so much just to do such a simple job, Mom seemed to relish wearing clothes that advertised her as a hot commodity. Not that I'm complaining. The best part of her penchant for sexy clothes, from my perspective, was that Mom wasn't in a rush to change when she came home. I loved those three work days a week, especially after my sister went away to university while I finished high school and started in a local college, leaving me to freely indulge in discreet observation. I can tell you that I made the best of the rewards that a nerdy home-life had to offer.

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That was a little long-winded but I hope it sets the context for what happened.

We were sitting in the family room after dinner, Dad in his leather recliner reviewing some papers he had brought home from the office, and Mom and I sharing the plush, black leather loveseat that faced the large screen mounted on the opposite wall. The family room sported two such loveseats, both retained from previously retired living room sets.

Mom was wearing a green leather skirt with a white turtle neck blouse. The leather jacket had been removed before dinner and was presumably upstairs in Mom's bedroom, along with her discarded pantyhose. This was one of the benefits that had arisen after my sister left. Mom was in the habit of removing her pantyhose after work which made her legs look all the better. I thought about telling her that but didn't because it would sound weird coming from her son.

Anyway, I brought an A&W root beer downstairs from my room that was left over from an afternoon burger. This I had set down on the table beside me but was divorced from easy access when Mom shooed me out of her usual spot next to the lamp where she usuall sat to read while casually watching TV.

Mom was sitting with her feet drawn up on the couch and a book propped against her upraised legs, covering most of the skin exposed below the hem of her short skirt. I asked Mom to pass my drink but she didn't hear me because of the blaringly loud commercial which had just started. Impatiently, I leaned over to grasp the drink myself but didn't notice the tiny pool of root beer that had accumulated where the straw pierced the top of the plastic lid. My arm accidentally brushed against Mom's book.

"Robert, be careful," she barked, yanking her arm and the book away.

Unfortunately, Mom's quick reaction jerked my arm, shaking the drink and tipping it slightly before I managed to right it. Nevertheless, a drop of root beer fell onto Mom's right knee, quickly followed by several others. I watched as the brown drops splashed onto Mom's pale skin, aware that her mouth had opened in surprise and was slowly forming a further rebuke.

Everything thereafter happened as if in slow motion. The sticky fluid gathered into a pool which, succumbing to gravity, soon blazed a path downward. First, it dripped into the hollow at the side of Mom's knee, then trickled on, gathering speed until it slowed along the less vertical slope out to the thicker part of Mom's thigh and finally sped up until it disappeared into the darkness of her skirt.

I was in shock, awaiting a barrage from Mom that never came. I stared at the trail left behind by the errant root beer, unable to move or say anything. Mom's mouth clamped shut and she slowly returned the book to its former position, blocking my sight of the brownish trail.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"It's ok," Mom replied, so low I could hardly hear her.

I sank back into the loveseat and watched TV, my eyes straight ahead, even though the show hadn't yet returned. When it did, I found myself missing chunks because my mind was distracted. I kept picturing the explosion of that first drop of root beer onto the edge of Mom's knee, the growing pool as it was joined by its companions with the inevitable surge and rush down Mom's thigh. The final scene played out longer each time I reviewed it in my mind, culminating in the ultimate tease: the slow motion disappearance of the brown trickle into the bowels of Mom's short, leather skirt.

A strange tension permeated. It felt like we were the only two people in the world; not even Dad, sitting less than ten feet away, was present in the mist surrounding us. Every nerve in my body was on alert and I sensed Mom was similarly on edge. Although she didn't look tense and was breathing normally, I knew she was anything but relaxed, just like me.

My eyes were repeatedly drawn to Mom's legs but I couldn't see past the book. Each time I looked away, my gaze returned seconds later. Eventually, Mom lifted the book toward her and, like an attack ladder slowly rising and falling against a castle wall, it crashed onto her chest with a dull thud, leaving her legs exposed.

Mom had been reading with her knees pulled up but leaning toward the arm of the loveseat to her right. Now, her knees slowly separated until they were about three inches apart. Without turning my head, I tried to see if Mom was aware of my attention. Thankfully, she seemed to be intent on watching the TV. My eyes recalibrated and the brown trail of the root beer came into focus, glistening in the light from the lamp beside Mom.

It must be sticky. Why hadn't Mom got up to clean it or at least grabbed a tissue from the table beside her to wipe her leg? My scrutiny intensified and I imagined what it must feel like to have that sticky rivulet drying on her leg, slowly contracting her skin and leaving a brittle, crusty residue.

My excitement rose ad my cock swelled in my pants, or vice versa. Looking down, I was relieved to see that my hands covered any potential accidental revelation but they had also pulled the drink, which was situated between my legs, so tightly into my crotch that the lid had popped off. I strained to relax my hands but it wasn't easy. Part of me wanted to keep the pressure of the drink container exactly where it was. I thought Mom's eyes flickered my way but assured myself my imagination was getting the better of me. Soon afterward, Mom pushed the book back onto her legs and I escaped to my room. I forgot to say goodnight.

My cock had a rough time of it that night. In my dreams, I smothered my mother in my spunk, from head to toe, and she reveled in my sticky gift but I knew it was me that was the pervert.

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The next day was back to normal. Although Mom wasn't working she wore a nice outfit anyway because she was meeting friends for lunch and afternoon shopping. Her attire didn't have the sexual appeal of her normal workday fare but her looks made up for it — in fact, she had to wear something hot like her leather work outfits to divert men's attention from her face. That evening in the family room wasn't anything unusual, lacking the tension between us I had felt the night before. Oh, well. Back to dreaming and hand-driven fantasies.

Wednesday was another matter. Mom arrived home in her creamy blue leather outfit with matching shoes, one of my favorites because it offset her piercing blue eyes. It also appeared that Mom had somehow managed to have her hair done during the day.

When Maria called us for dinner, Mom started to take her suit jacket off but changed her mind with one arm almost extracted. This caught my attention because the white turtleneck she wore underneath stretched tightly over Mom's breast as the jacket pulled away from her shoulder, making it very apparent why Mom changed her mind: she wasn't wearing a bra.

It had never occurred to me that Mom might sometimes go unheeled. It wasn't a hot day so that wasn't the reason. Did she just feel like it some days, or was there someone at work she wanted to tease, to cruelly dangle unattainable goodies?

During dinner, I tried to peek under the lapels of Mom's jacket. I have to admit, I offered her every bowl and dish and even the salt and pepper in an effort to get her to raise her arms. After dinner, I went upstairs, needing to hide the results of my deligntful observations. With some difficulty, I refrained from touching myself to the point of no return.

When I passed by Mom's room on the way back downstairs, I saw her standing in front of her dresser removing her earrings, her head tipping first one way and then the other. I paused, checking to make sure I couldn't see her reflection in the mirror and, thus, she mine. After putting her earrings down Mom lifted her skirt and slipped her hands underneath. Grasping her pantyhose, she pulled them down, wriggling her bottom as her hands urged the reluctant mesh from her supple flesh. I was so engrossed I was caught as Mom suddenly turned to throw the pantyhose into the laundry basket. She looked at me expectantly as if I must have come to tell her something.

"Uh... Maria's leaving," I said, lamely, blushing and hoping she wouldn't notice from where she stood.

Mom smiled. "Fine," she replied. "I'll be right down."

With that, she started to remove her jacket, again stopping one hand almost extracted and for the second time revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her braless breast stretching the material of her blouse. I desperately wanted to stay to see it come off all the way but my brain thankfully kicked me in the ass and started my feet moving. It was one thing to peek, another to imagine, and a quite a different thing to leer.

I was surprised to see Mom enter the family room with her jacket still on. She sat down in her usual seat which I had left empty beside me. Dad was stretched out on the other loveseat along the next wall beside us, the recliner where he usually sat on the other side of Mom sitting empty.

"Did Maria make coffee before she left?" Mom asked as she sat down.

I nodded toward the mug sitting on the table next to her and braced myself for a scathing remark when she saw the container of root beer next to her coffee. However, Mom didn't say anything but her gaze lingered for a second or two during which I held my breath.

The pregnant moment ended when Mom picked up the remote from the table and put the station guide up on the screen. Great. This meant she wasn't going to read and I would have an unobstructed view of her legs which were nicely displayed below the hem of the blue leather skirt.

I swallowed an excited gurgle when I saw how far the short leather skirt had ridden up Mom's thighs as she pulled her knees up into their usual position. The hem was high enough to show the thickening of her legs. I traced the edge of her right leg along a delightful curve until her almost met. Mom clicked and one of the shows started. She discarded the remote and picked up her coffee, sipping it carefully while she watched.

I tried to watch the show but was distracted by the thought that Mom's panties must be only inches above the blue hemline. I glanced several times at the dark slot into which her thighs disappeared. I was working up the courage to lean across Mom to get my drink when Mom abruptly leaned forward and began removing her jacket.

"Hold the sleeve for me, Robert," she said, struggling to extract her left arm.

I did and Mom pulled her arm out, then slid the jacket off her other arm. She passed it to me and I laid it out on the arm of the loveseat beside me. When I turned back, Mom was settling into the seat, her breasts jostling slightly as she wiggled into the plush, leather cushion. I quickly looked away but a minute later I glanced sideways to confirm what I hoped: Mom was indeed not wearing a bra as attested by the faintly visible memories of mammarial movement.

I adored those two white mounds. They were like Alps with two small huts perched at the crests, ready to offer succor to the lost. I followed their rise and fall as Mom repeatedly breathed life into the twin temples and tried to revive childhood memories of finding solace there. Why would it be so wrong to do so now?

Halfway through the show, I raised the courage to reach for my drink, but completely forgot to peek up Mom's skirt and instead got caught looking down at her twin peaks.

"Be careful," Mom cautioned as I picked up my drink.

I made sure there was no root beer on the lid that could spill on her blouse or legs. I sucked on the straw for the next fifteen minutes, frequently sneaking peeks at Mom's breasts and very exposed legs. During the commercials at the half hour, I leaned across Mom to put the drink back on the table. I looked down at the white valley formed by the turtleneck as it fell between her breasts, like snow on a mountain slope, and was startled by Mom's sharp intake of breath.

"Robert," she hissed.

"S...sorry," I stammered, thinking I had been caught leering at Mom's breasts but slowly realizing I was spilling root beer onto her legs again. I swung the drink outward in a wide arc, staring down at the brown rivulets trickling down the insides of Mom's legs. I looked at the drink in my hand, perplexed. Mom was glaring at me and as I reached out to wipe the sticky fluid from her legs, she barked at me.

"Leave it!"

I paused with my hand hovering over her legs, then retracted it.

"The show is on," Mom said. "You're in the way."

I leaned back, looked at the TV, then at Mom's legs, at her face staring intently at the screen, and back to her legs. I twisted about and eased back into the couch. Mom continued to watch the TV while I watched the root beer dry on her legs and the rise and fall of her breasts which seemed more apparent now, probably because of my heightened awareness.

The short skirt was even higher on Mom's legs now. She had opened her legs at bit, perhaps to let more air in to dry the pop? This was so much better than the first time. There were two large, brown stains splashed onto the thick, tender, inner part of Mom's thighs. My eyes were drawn deeper into the opening of her skirt, wondering if the stain had reached her panties. Of course it had, I thought, my cock twitching at the very idea. I pictured a brown discoloration spreading over pure white panties stretched across a pulsing, puffy mound.

Oh, man. I wanted so badly to spread something stickier all over those formerly pristine panties. I settled the cup between my legs and pulled it back. Oh yeah, I could imagine myself leaning against Mom's knees, wacking off and shooting down her legs, spraying my goo over the hand she held there, and watching it ooze between her spread fingers onto the panties underneath.

I can't believe I didn't come in my pants right away. It was torture and heaven both to sit there until the show was over. As soon as the credits started to roll I got up and left the room, once again failing to say goodnight, which was fortunate. Halfway up the stairs, I started shooting into my pants.

I couldn't get to sleep that night. I kept thinking about the way Mom sat there and let the root beer dry on her legs while holding them open as if she wanted me to see, to watch it with her. It was so freaking weird. I had never experienced anything so erotic, not even fucking my girlfriend, and she was a great lay.

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I met Gloria in my English class. She wasn't as pretty as Mom; in fact, she wasn't much like Mom at all. Gloria was short with closely cropped, light brown hair compared whereas Mom was tall and lithe with luxuriously long, dark brown hair that had a curly expression. However, like Mom, Gloria possessed an undeniably sexy aura. Her sexuality was so potent I was never at her place for long before we were in bed. Surprising? Well, not the first time, but the second and third? Despite rumors to the contrary, young guys do have their limits, but I digress.

Gloria had once murmured, while in the afterglow of an orgasm, that she loved everything about sex, even the smell of it. So the very first afternoon after spilling root beer on Mom's legs for the second time, I found myself banging my girlfriend hard. I had wacked off so much the night before that Gloria came twice before me and I had been fucking her for a further fifteen minutes, bringing her well on her way to a third, noisy orgasm, when I pictured Mom's sticky thighs bracketing a stained pair of white panties. I got real excited and it foolishly entered my mind that, since I couldn't do Mom, maybe Gloria would get off on being 'marked' with my spunk.

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