Soaking Mom


Well, to make a long story short, she didn't. In the tirade that ensued after I pulled out and sprayed my sticky juice all over her belly and tits, she mentioned, between intense and extremely vulgar expressions, what an asshole I was. But here's the kicker, she said her girlfriend had warned her about me because I might be a pervert like my mother.

My mother? A pervert? I had never heard this before and while ducking things thrown, I queried Gloria for more information which only seemed to make her even more furious. Suffice it to say I didn't get anything else out of her, not even the name of her friend, except that her Mom was a lawyer and had been to several parties that my mother attended.

Looking back, I really should have been more devastated by the loss of such a willing and eager bed partner but the revelation about my mother intrigued me to no end. It distracted me for days until, outside of cramming to complete assignments, I thought of little else. Mom hadn't joined us in the living room since that second spillage and I vacillated between ecstatic daydreams that always ended with me puddling my cum on Mom's belly and anxious fears that Mom was so pissed about what I'd done that she was thinking of telling Dad and getting me booted out of the house. Having it off with Gloria paled in comparison to dreaming about spunking my mother.

And, thinking of Gloria, what did she mean — pervert? My imagination having gone wild the past few days, I tried renewing contact with Gloria but that proved to be a non-starter. All she did was treat me to another earful of colorful words strung into novel phrases. I racked my brains. Why had Gloria mentioned Mom's supposed perverseness right after I'd spunked her belly? Had her friend said Mom was into it? And, thinking of that, why hadn't Mom cleaned her legs after I dribbled sweet, sticky root beer on them?

The whole thing reminded me of the time Mom and Dad had argued over some guy a few years ago. Who was he? My father referred to him as Guido but I'm pretty sure that wasn't his real name. He was way younger than Dad, and some years younger than Mom, an up-and-comer at Mom's firm that attended several parties at our place. I remembered him as handsome and confident. At the first party, Mom hadn't liked him but at subsequent affairs, they were quite friendly and that annoyed Dad. 'Guido' had an attitude toward Mom she wouldn't have tolerated from anyone else, not even Dad, let alone a junior lawyer, up-and-comer or not. Eventually, he disappeared from the scene, probably having moved on to another law firm.

Had Gloria's friend witnessed something that happened between 'Guido' and my mother? Unless I could renew my friendship with Gloria, I would never know, and that seemed out of the question.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

On Monday, Mom wore her dark brown, leather outfit. The skirt wasn't as short as the blue one and the turtle neck had been replaced by a silky white blouse that clung to her torso and was sufficiently transparent to reveal the presence of a designer bra underneath. I was enthralled throughout dinner and quickly ran upstairs as soon as I was finished, hoping to repeat the clandestine monitoring of the removal of Mom's pantyhose. I waited near the door of my room until I heard Mom climbing the stairs and going into her bedroom. As soon as she was in, I crept into the hallway until I was near Mom's open doorway and listened intently for the signature rustling that would signal the impending removal of her pantyhose.

For a long minute, there was no sound, except when I accidentally bumped my head against the wall. In near panic that I might be discovered, I almost fled back to my room but desire kept me in place. Right after that I heard the telltale rustling which is remarkable given how fast my heart was beating. I peeked around the edge of the doorway and there she was, one foot extended out and curled over the edge of the bed. Mom was leaning over her outstretched leg, watching her hands roll the barely visible, silk stockings down her leg to her foot. She paused, straightening a little to critically eye her gorgeous leg, staring for almost half a minute with her head tilting from side to side, like an eagle eyeing its imminent prey.

Tossing the stocking onto the bed, Mom dropped her leg and swung her other foot onto the edge of the bed. Only then did I realize Mom was wearing stockings and not pantyhose. For some reason, that made my cock leap inside the constraints of my jeans.

Mom swept her skirt back and, after fumbling with something, started rolling the stocking down her leg. The skirt flew back so far it bared all of Mom's leg and the side of her buttock too, revealing a glimpse of white panties. I was surprised they didn't match the brown leather skirt. As Mom's hands approached her foot, I noticed a brown strap dangling down from underneath the skirt. It was a garter belt.

Mom stood up straight again as she discarded the second stocking on the bed, then moved her hands under her skirt to grasp the garter belt, lifted the skirt high and turning away from me. This was okay because I got a full-on look at her panty covered ass, not that they covered much. Mom appeared to have difficulty slipping the garter belt over her hips which was another boon. Unlike the last time when I got to see Mom's skirt-covered, wiggling bottom, this time I was treated to pair of slender cheeks protruding from a tiny triangle of stark white panties. I can't believe I didn't groan out loud.

The skirt fell back into place as Mom drew the garter belt down her legs and stepped out of them. I quietly withdrew and slunk back to my bedroom. I didn't think it would do for me to appear at her door a second time just when she had finished removing her stockings.

Mom was sitting in her spot reading when I came downstairs and Dad was back in his recliner. I walked past Dad and sat on the loveseat, picking up the remote as I passed by Mom's end table. There wasn't anything good on so I selected an old movie since I didn't want to put on a show that required actual attention. I watched for a couple of minutes, then glanced at Mom's legs. Crap. They were covered by the magazine Mom was reading. I switched to her chest and was pleased to find that the filmy, white blouse clung to the outline of Mom's breasts. The lacy, skin-colored bra underneath enhanced their appearance, pushing them up for a marvelous presentation. My imagination completed the picture by adding in a couple of bumps just like the ones I'd admired when Mom had gone braless under the white turtleneck.

Five minutes later, I was ready to try spilling some root beer. Root beer! Shit! I had forgotten to get some. Now what?

A minute later, I got up.

"I'm making hot chocolate. Anyone want some?"

Dad looked nodded but Mom kept reading, ignoring me. I disappeared into the kitchen, bothered by the way Mom had shunned me. Five minutes later, I returned with two mugs in hand, one of which I handed to my father. Taking my place back on the couch, I returned to the movie which Mom was now diligently watching. I sipped my hot chocolate for the next ten minutes until it was almost half gone and no longer steaming hot. I looked over at my father, happy to see that he was now thoroughly engrossed in a pocket book, having put aside the legal papers he had been reading. A weird thrill coursed through me because when Dad read a book, he really immersed himself in it.

I glanced at Mom. She was similarly ensconced in the movie, the magazine lying back against her chest, leaving her legs bare and slightly parted, the brown leather skirt having slipped more than halfway from her knees to her lap. Perfect. Now, if only I had the guts for the plan I'd dreamed up that had prompted me to make the hot chocolate. I pushed down on the handle of the mug, pressing its bottom onto the bulge in my pants. Please let this work, I pleaded, glancing up at the ceiling. Then, I risked home and hearth.

I dipped my finger into the hot chocolate, moved my hand quickly to hover over Mom's legs, and let hot chocolate drip onto her thighs.

Before the first drops splattered over Mom's pale skin, fear overwhelmed me. What had I done? What the fuck was the matter with me? Mom would freak out, and so would my father who was sitting five feet away. Even his legendary concentration wouldn't withstand the shriek that was about to launch from Mom's mouth, already tearing open as her jaw dropped in absolute shock.

If I could have run from the room right then, I would have, but my whole body felt numb and responded like lead. I couldn't even move my hand away, watching in growing horror as hot chocolate continued to dribble from the tip of my longest finger.

Mom's legs were already quivering from the heated impact of the brown liquid, as if they had been pierced by sharp pins. Mom's hands were pushing the magazine forward, off her chest, reacting faster than her lungs could create sound to block the fall of the remaining few drops.

But then, the strangest thing happened. The magazine stopped short, allowing the last drops to fall past onto Mom's legs, reinforcing the pool of those that had fallen first and inciting them to advance, probing blindly down the inside of Mom's thighs. Mom's jaw clamped shut and, with my peripheral vision, I saw her turn to look at Dad but I couldn't rip my eyes away from the fascinating descent of the hot chocolate underneath Mom's skirt. I stared, completely enthralled, until the two tiny rivulets lost their forced, stopped flowing, and began to dry up. Mom hadn't moved and seemed to be equally mesmerized. Finally, she raised her head but avoided me and looked straight ahead at the TV. It was as if nothing had happened. Except for the drying brown trickles on Mom's legs, the only evidence of my transgression was my throbbing cock pulsing against the mug I was squeezing between my legs.

The situation in the room was surreal. I continued stare at Mom's thighs while she studiously studied the TV. My father, blithely unaware, flipped to the next page in his thick pocket book. Mom was breathing more quickly but was otherwise oblivious to what had just happened. My hand had returned, unnoticed, to rest on my lap.

I watched the show for several more minutes, in disbelief about what I'd done and that I'd gotten away with it. Was it possible that Mom wasn't going to do anything, or was she waiting until she could get me alone before whacking me a good one and really laying into me?

I dipped my longest finger full-length into the mug and moved it once more to hover over Mom's legs. I noticed her eyes flicker and knew she was aware of the movement. Her only reaction was to move her right hand, holding the magazine upright, onto the arm of the loveseat, partially blocking Dad's view of her lap should he raise his eyes from his book. Mom's eyes shifted to the magazine and the hot chocolate began dripping onto her legs.

Splat, splat ... splat ... splat ... splat ... splat.

I withdrew my hand but not my eyes, watching intently as the drying rivers were renewed. Mom's gaze fell onto her thighs, watching the trickles disappear under her skirt as they slowly subsided.

My left hand found the side of Mom's skirt, its fingers capturing the hem and slowly dragging it back toward the couch, exposing another inch or so of leg to reveal that the hot chocolate had begun to curve over the fatty part of Mom's thighs toward the center, toward her... panties, the middle of her panties to be exact, the puffed up mound of her pussy.

My finger dipped again, hovered over Mom's legs, closer to the hem, and dripped right onto the fat part.

Splat ... splat ... splat ... splat.

I withdrew my hovering hand but the fingers on the other dragged Mom's skirt back even farther. Way back, bringing her white panties into view. The two rivers of hot chocolate had curled in right to the edges of Mom's panties and had then followed the material down each side, well I assumed it had but I could only see the side nearest me. I was more fascinated by the way Mom's white panties were pulsating, just like my cock was throbbing in my own pants. Her pussy was obviously reacting to what I'd done.

I dipped my finger again but Mom's left hand shot out to grasp my wrist. Her eyes pleaded for me to stop yet also seemed to invite me to continue. I tried to move my hand to overcome her resistance but her grip tightened and the pleading look intensified. As my hand relaxed, Mom's face softened, and her hand withdrew. Her attention returned to the TV allowing five more minutes to enjoy looking at her legs and panties before her hand, lying limply on the couch beside her, tugged the skirt up her legs. I got up a couple of minutes after that, leaned over to kiss Mom goodnight on her cheek, said goodnight to Dad, and went upstairs to bed where I mercilessly beat my cock nearly to death.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mom didn't work the next day. The leather outfit was replaced by a loosely pleated skirt and one of the favored soft turtleneck tops surprisingly covered by a cardigan sweater that didn't match. I arrived home before Dad and Mom met me by the door. She waited until I had hung up my coat and then slapped me hard in the face.

"Ow, Mom. What was that for?"

The reply was stern. "You know very well."

I started to protest my innocence but Mom turned on her heel and walked away with a no nonsense gait. I decided to cut my losses and beat it upstairs. I was quite mollified but within fifteen minutes, thinking about what had happened, my emotional state changed to relief and gratitude. If that was all that was going to happen, it wasn't so bad. In fact, I had come out ahead, way ahead. Maybe I wouldn't be allowed to do what I did again, but I had a great memory to forever cherish.

Nevertheless, I went downstairs with some trepidation, worried that Mom's slap was just the start of my punishment. Was she going to tell Dad? Thankfully, that worry was misplaced. Except for Mom's cool attitude toward me, dinner was the usual affair. Not a word was spoken or a hint offered about my transgressions but I still felt uncomfortable and somewhat anxious.

When I had finished eating, I retreated to my room because I wan't able to stay near Mom without staring at her. Unable to study, or even concentrate on a game, I wandered back downstairs. I looked in Mom's room as I passed by even though I was pretty sure there wouldn't be any furrther opportunities to see Mom removing her stockings. I proceeded downstairs knowing that I wanted to be near her anyway, even if she wasn't wearing a short skirt and was mad at me. I had become entranced with my mother.

Dad and Mom were sitting exactly as they had been the night before except Mom was reading a book too, even though the TV was on. I sat down next to Mom. Nobody acknowledged my entrance. Had they been talking about what had happened in private? Worry sank from my head into the pit of my stomach. I felt like running away but needed to stay to see if I could pick up any hints from Dad.

I picked up the remote which was lying on the couch beside Mom and browsed the channel guide until I found another old movie, one that would be quiet and as undisturbing as possible. I looked at Mom's legs, covered by the skirt that reached almost to her knees and her breasts, or where they would have been if they hadn't been covered by that ugly sweater. I think Mom was aware of my attention but was studiously ignoring me, concentrating on her book almost as much as Dad did on his.

Ten minutes dragged by without a single glance my way from either Mom or Dad. On Dad's part, that meant nothing. I already knew Mom was mad so that didn't mean much either. I was about to return to my room when I noticed Mom's hand slip under the sweater on the side closest to me to scratch an itch. A moment later, her hand returned, and then again a moment after that. This time, Mom itched so hard that the sweater fell off her shoulder and to her side. I noticed immediately that the material of the turtleneck, soft as it was, settled very closely over Mom's breast, beautifully molding its sculptured, braless form.

All motivation to leave dissipated. Instead, I watched Mom's breast jostle about with each breath for the next three or four minutes, especially where her nipple protruded under the white turtleneck. The more I watched, the better defined it seemed to become and I wondered if that was because Mom was breathing a little faster and thus stretching the material more. Was she reading a racy book? I strained to see the title but couldn't.

Mom suddenly raised her eyes from her book and looked at my father.

"Do you want some hot chocolate?" she asked him.

Dad looked up and shook his head, then returned immediately to his book.

"Well, I do," Mom said. Like Dad, she returned to her book, her eyes flicking from side to side as she read. She turned the page and spoke to me without looking.

"Why don't you make some hot chocolate for us?"

I looked at Mom for a moment without responding, not quite understanding her simple request. Then, I shook my head and got up. In the kitchen, there were two mugs sitting beside the kettle which was already full of water. I depressed the switch and waited for the water to boil. It seemed to take forever and almost that long for me to realize that I didn't want the hot chocolate to be too hot. I flicked the switch up prematurely and poured the water onto the mix already in the mugs, stirred, and carried them into the family room.

Mom and Dad were still reading but I almost spilled the hot chocolate when I got close enough to see that Mom's skirt had slid down her legs and had bunched up on her lap. I handed her a mug and sat down, careful not to spill. Quickly, I took a sip and chastised myself for filling my mug so full.

I looked at Mom. She was holding the mug in her left hand and the book in her right, extended along the arm of the loveseat. The skirt had fallen even further up Mom's thighs which made me lurch inside my pants. Why would she present such an inviting picture if she didn't want to play? Her breast, seeming firmer than ever, did nothing to dispel my new theory. Mom was inviding me to play.

Sipping my hot chocolate, I stared at the TV, seeing nothing, my right hand creeping along the seat until it could grasp Mom's skirt. I was scared yet determined. I tugged and the skirt slid an inch further down Mom's thighs. I expected a slap or at least a quiet rebuke muttered under her breath but Mom continued reading as if nothing had happened. Encouraged, but still expecting a slap, I tugged again, gaining another inch. Mom casually took a sip of her hot chocolate so, now unafraid, I executed a third, harder tug, gaining almost two inches.

Mom's skirt was now almost down to her panties. Her thighs, thickening until they met, looked so fucking hot I wished I could bury my face between them, slathering my tongue up to her panties. Her white panties. Somehow, I just knew she would be wearing white.

I took another sip of hot chocolate. It wasn't too hot. Dipping my finger into the mug, I moved to hover it over Mom's legs but her hand stopped me. She had put her mug down without me even noticing and laid it on my wrist, like she had last night, stopping me cold. It wasn't a slap but it was just as effective.

I tried to look into Mom's eyes but she was still reading. I tried to move my hand but she held it firmly in place. Why? Was this a just big tease to put me in my place? I didn't dare move for fear of alerting my father. Her hand relaxed and I started to move but she gripped me again, very tight. I relaxed my hand. Satisfied, Mom moved hers away.

Ok, I would take my punishment like a man. I tried to look away but couldn't stop admiring her legs. They were so wonderfully sculptured and sexy. Despite the comeuppance, my cock throbbed against the mug between my legs. Mom stretched, slightly arching her back, thrusting a breast and its stiff nipple into the soft turtleneck. I wanted to suck it but knew I couldn't. That's what she's telling me, I thought, what she's told every man that admired her so boldly. You can look but you can't touch and you definitely can't have it.

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byalwayswantedto© 59 comments/ 435339 views/ 110 favorites

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