Awakening Obsession Ch. 03bySisyvin1©
It was the morning after I'd watched my mother brought to orgasm at the hands of her best friend. I'd been tortured in my dreams by visions of the two of them, doing things to each other, doing things to me. I'd finally given up trying to sleep and began muddling through the day, tired and horny. As I ate my cereal in the kitchen, I saw Donna's purse still on the counter. Immediately all I could think of was the two of them in Mom's bed, naked, bodies intertwined, relaxing after a long night of Sapphic pleasure. Christ, I thought, as I made myself even hornier than before. I finished breakfast and headed to the shower to both relieve myself and wake up.
When I got out, I could hear them in the kitchen and smelled breakfast cooking. I threw on some sweatpants and a t-shirt and left my room, curious to watch how they acted towards one another. Donna was standing at the stove wearing one of my mother's thick robes, stirring up eggs in a skillet, while Mom was pouring some juice. Donna gave me a big smile and said good morning, then asked if I wanted some breakfast. I told her I'd love some and remarked that I didn't realize she was still here, since she wasn't on the couch when I woke up. I saw my mother's face go red out of the corner of my eye and her hand jerked slightly, nearly tipping one of the glasses. Donna just smiled and said that she must have already been in the shower by then. I knew better, but let it drop.
While we ate, I asked questions about how their night went. Clearly Mom wasn't able to give evasive answers, or keep herself from blushing every time I asked another question, so Donna did most of the talking. Her answers were quick and believable enough that you never would have thought that she spent the prior evening getting my mother off. She and I chatted quite amiably while my mother blushed and crossed and uncrossed her legs. When I asked if she was sore and worn out from all the dancing, she nearly choked on her orange juice, and Donna's answer of "well, she was going at it pretty hard last night" didn't help her recover.
A couple of hours later, Donna was leaving. She'd changed back into the prior evening's clothes and walked to the door with my Mom, who was still in her bathrobe. I said goodbye and walked into my room, which was directly across from the front door, swinging my door mostly shut behind me. I immediately turned and looked through the crack, to watch their goodbyes. Any thoughts that I'd dreamt the whole encounter vanished after Mom glanced at my door, then stepped forward into Donna, drawing her into a slow kiss. Donna's right hand vanished, and from the movements of Mom's robe I guessed that it was getting one last caress of my mother's breasts. After they broke the kiss I could hear my mother thank her girlfriend, followed by Donna's assurance that the pleasure was definitely hers. After the door shut, my mother sighed and turned around, unwittingly showing me her exposed left breast before pulling her robe shut as she walked away. I shut my eyes, and renewed my vow from last night to myself. The first elements of the plan started to come together.
A few weeks later, I was ready. A lot of the plan – too much, really, for my taste – was going to have to rely on chance, but I chalked that up to the impossibility of coming up with a foolproof plan to seduce one's mother. It was a Friday night, Mom's dance night, only this time her and Donna were going to have company – me. Earlier in the week I'd expressed to Mom that I got worried about her and Donna drinking and driving, and even though she was pretty good about calling me, I thought it might be a good idea if they were going to be drinking, then I could just come along instead of driving out to wherever they were. She was genuinely excited by the idea; from her reaction, she thought we'd have a lot of fun. She even said getting me drinks wouldn't be a problem. My mother was often more concerned with everyone having a good time rather than dealing with the incongruity of having her designated driver drinking alcohol.
I got dressed up for the occasion, nothing extravagant by any stretch, but fairly formal for me. I left the normal jeans and t-shirt behind for a button-down white shirt and grey pants. I put on my mother's favorite cologne – she'd bought it for me a couple of weeks ago when we were out. I'd asked her opinion on what the best one would be, so she picked the one she liked the most. I'd even gotten a haircut that day, since she always said how much better I looked with short hair. I was nervous and excited, my pulse was pounding, but I was ready. The shame and self-loathing was long gone – I'd left those feelings far behind. Now or never, I said to myself, and with a last glance of the mirror, went out to the kitchen to wait.
There was a small pint bottle of Seagram's 7 on the counter, which apparently was going with me – Mom knew that I liked it and it was small enough to go in a jacket pocket. I could hear that she was still getting ready, so I poured a drink to calm my nerves and give me something to do. I was imagining how the night might go, how I might work anything unusual into the plan, when I heard a wolf whistle from behind me. Mom had come out and saw my look for the evening. She exclaimed over my haircut and ran her fingers in it. I jumped a little at her touch, and barely heard her going on about how nice I looked and how I should dress this way all the time. She paused, and sniffed as she leaned in to me. She gave me an "mmmm" and told me that I'd be popular tonight. With that, she stepped back and asked me how she looked.
I drank in the sight of her, starting at the top of her styled auburn hair. She had heavier makeup on than normal, but still not a lot, just a dark red lipstick, smoky eyes, and a hint of blush. She was wearing her white silk blouse – I'd made sure to tell her I really liked it earlier in the week, that it was very flattering – unbuttoned enough to show a hint of her freckled cleavage. The shirt was tight enough that the last button hiding cleavage was visibly pulled taut. Her shirt was tucked into a new dark red miniskirt that matched her lips and stopped at mid-thigh. Her long legs were in taupe pantyhose and ended in a new pair of dark-red pumps with 4" heels and an ankle strap. How did she look? I couldn't tell her what I wanted to say, that she looked so good I wanted to bend her over the counter and take her right there, or that I could have licked every inch of her. What finally came out was that she looked great, in a sort of hoarse croak. She must have picked up on something in my voice or face, because she looked at me oddly for a moment and smiled. She said that was the reaction she was going for, and that she wanted to turn some heads.
I found my courage, and laughed, and said that if she wanted to turn some more heads then she should make an adjustment. I stepped forward, brought my hands up to her shirt and quickly undid a button, fully exposing her cleavage as well as the edge of her bra – a dark red, matching everything else. She looked surprised as I did so and looked at me briefly, shocked, and then laughed. She stepped past me, swatting me playfully on the rump and calling me a brat. I could tell she was pleased though, and she never bothered to button her shirt. She grabbed a glass and poured some red wine into it, and we chatted for a little while in the kitchen, me sneaking looks at her legs and sipping a drink of my own. A little while and a couple of glasses of wine later, she said it was about time to go get Donna, and turned around to grab the phone. It was on the far side of the counter, and she bent over at the waist to retrieve it. She stayed that way as she talked into the phone, resting on her elbows. The skirt rode up in the back far enough to expose the line of her nylon pantyhose top, and I stared at her, fully aroused. My mind wondered what she would do if I stepped forward and slid my hands up her skirt, gripping her ass, as I had done to her before. She started to hang up the phone and I turned around quickly to hide my noticeable excitement. She announced that she was ready and I replied emphatically that I was ready too.
I made a big deal of it as we went to the car, extending my elbow and waiting for her to slip her arm through it. She laughed, loving it, and I opened the back door of the car – the sedan, not the 'Vette – and let her in. I stepped around to the front of the door to watch her get in. She didn't demurely sit then swing her legs in, knees together; as I'd hoped, she swung one sexy leg in first as she sat. This spread her legs apart enough for me to tell that she wasn't wearing panties, just the hose. She thanked me for being a gentleman, and I smiled and mentally thanked her for the show. I got in the front seat and made a show of adjusting the seat and mirror. She was checking her makeup and I set the mirror so that it was reflecting her legs. As I drove to Donna's, I spent more time looking in that mirror than I did the road. Every time she shifted or crossed her legs the show made it worth it. I was lucky not to drive into anyone on the short trip.
When we got to Donna's, I had just gotten out of the car and opened the back door behind my seat when Mom's girlfriend came walking out. She was wearing a brown plaid pleated skirt, matching Mary Jane pumps, and a white shirt. She did a nice job of evoking the classic schoolgirl look without being too blatant about it; no pigtails or anything too over-the-top. She smiled brightly at me as she passed and gave my butt a playful squeeze before she got in. I got a good look at her as well – suntan sheer-to-waist, no underwear – before I took a deep breath and prepared to escort them out for the evening.
While I drove, I again kept my eyes on the mirror, and they had obligingly sat closer to the middle of the back seat. They were talking about the coming night, who might be there, nothing exciting, but I watched Donna's manicured hands occasionally venture over to touch my mother's thigh briefly. When we were about halfway there, Donna started talking about some guy that they met the last time they were there, and the way she was lightly teasing my mother gave me the impression that Mom was interested in him. As she was talking, I saw her hand once again rest on Mom's thigh, but instead of moving back, it started to run slowly along the crossed leg, up to the knee, down to the hem of the skirt. Mom uncrossed her leg and left her knees slightly apart; I'm not sure if she was even aware of doing it, or if it was like Pavlov's dog responding automatically. Donna's fingers started to trail along the inner thigh, pushing the skirt hem up a little higher with each passage. I was wondering how far it might go, when we unfortunately arrived at our destination.
I hid my excitement as best I could as I opened the door for each of them, but their method of exiting the vehicle wasn't any different from how they entered it, and that kept the front of my pants uncomfortably tight. They didn't seem to notice, thankfully, so I extended an arm to each of them and relished the feel of their arms through mine. As we walked across the asphalt lot, Mom began to apologize to me for anything she might do to embarrass me tonight. I told them both that I was there to enjoy myself and their company, not get in their way or interfere with their fun. She squeezed my arm gratefully and seemed to relax again. I hadn't noticed her nervousness about the evening until then, so I tried to put her at ease.
An hour later, my mother obviously wasn't nervous any more. After a few shots, she and Donna were loose and laughing. I'd never seen my mother drink like that, usually sticking to wine and the like, and hearing her curse and make risqué jokes was a surprise to me. I kept my word, though, laughing along, taking a drink now and again myself. They'd insisted that I join them on their last 2 rounds of shots as well, so I was feeling pretty good myself, and was egging them on. They'd point out some of the female patrons of the bar and tell me I could probably go home with one of them – I was at least 20 years younger than everyone else, including the staff – until I told them that I was already sitting at the table with the two best looking ladies there, so why would I settle for less? They laughed, toasted me, and downed another shot.
We were sitting in a booth in the lounge area of the restaurant, just off the dance floor. The crowd, as I said, was mostly older folks, and the music and atmosphere definitely catered to them. The music didn't bother me much – Mom listened to it all the time, so I was used to it, and could enjoy it – and I kind of enjoyed watching a bunch of overweight middle-aged dudes trying to score. Mom and I were on the same side of the booth, me to the inside, so they could get up and dance when they wanted. There was maybe twenty people total in the place, but they told me it was early yet. The drinks kept flowing, and they more they had the more Mom encouraged me to drink and "loosen up". I got an iced tea and started pouring it into a shotglass when they got up. It looked enough like booze that they thought it was, and I wanted to keep a clear enough head to follow my plan.
As the place started picking up around 11, I saw an opportunity to work new elements into the plan. Donna and Mom were back at the table, drinking some wine, slurring some words, and having a blast. Donna suddenly grabbed my mother's wrist across the table and told Mom to look at the door. Curious, I looked over as well, and saw another 50-year-old guy walk in. He looked better than most of the other guys, I suppose, and definitely looked like he had some money. With him was an attractive woman who would have been younger than everyone in the place, if I hadn't been there, probably in her early 30's, dolled up and looking like an expensive trophy. Mom made a cutting remark about the "obvious paid escort" and by the tone in her voice I could tell she was jealous. Donna helpfully clued me in: apparently, the last time they were here, Mom had made some moves on him. He'd brushed her off, and apparently she wasn't taking it well. I thought of how this could help my own game.
While they were alternating put-downs between them for the newcomers, I cut them off and said I had an idea. Sure, he's with a younger pretty woman, but I was there – why not be the young man hanging on Mom's arm? They didn't need to know I was her son, and we hadn't told anyone up to that point. Mom laughed and blushed, a little, but Donna was all over the idea – she loved it. She volunteered to call attention to the whole thing. One drink later, and she got up heading to the guy's table, giving us a last quick admonition to make it look good.
Mom slid over a little, so that we were hip-to-hip, and turned toward me like we were deep in intimate conversation. She kept asking me if the guy was looking and how he was reacting, so I kept flicking my eyes in that direction. When I saw him finally look over, I looked back at Mom, smiled, and slid my hand over her left knee, which was crossed over her right. She jumped a little, but I just smiled and told her the guy was watching. I kept caressing her knee with my left hand, loving the feel of silky nylon under my fingers. I told her to lean in close, like we were kissing. Her face was flushed and her eyes were wide; I guess putting a half-inch between our lips and pretending to be on a date with her son made her nervous.
I whispered to her to relax and slowly moved my hand just a couple of inches up her thigh, sliding it back to her knee, then a little farther up her leg with every stroke. She closed her eyes and started to breathe a little heavy, panting almost. After a minute, I squeezed her thigh and pulled back, moving my hand away and grabbing my drink. The guy was giving me the eye, like a sort of challenging look, I guess, like I was in the old dog's territory and he didn't appreciate it much. Mom kept her eyes closed a second or two, still breathing a trifle heavy, and then grabbed her own drink and finished it in a long swallow. Her cheeks were still flushed, and I started to think it wasn't just nerves. If drinking made her horny, then she should be feeling it pretty strong by now, and I suspected getting her thigh stroked started to rev her engine.
Donna came back in a state of high glee. "That was awesome!" she said, sliding back into the booth. "From there, it looked like you were making out. Brent was steaming!" She laughed again and finished her own drink. "Oh God, this is going to be so much fun!"
Mom, still flushed, must have looked a question at her, but Donna said, "Uh-uh, you can't stop now. He needs to be taken down a notch." I could have kissed Donna then and there. She was playing this right into my hands.
I smiled at Mom and said, "This will be fun. No one disses my Mom." They laughed together, and once again we toasted with their fresh drinks.
Over the next couple of hours, Mom began to grow into her role. The alcohol was definitely blurring the lines of propriety for her. I sat with my left arm behind her, trailing my fingers over her shoulder, sliding them over the silk, and occasionally brought my right hand over to touch her thigh. She started putting her hand on my thigh, for just a couple of seconds at first, but after a while just left it there. Soon enough, when she wasn't really paying attention, she would start moving her hand up and down my leg, then catch herself and stop – but she didn't take her hand away, and soon enough it would start of its own accord. Donna was keeping an eye on my boy Brent, and would tell us when to "kiss". After a couple more times, the nerves were gone; she'd lean in eagerly, and started resting her pursed lips on mine, like she was giving me a kiss on the cheek and leaving it there. It was killing me, having her lips pressing on mine, breasts pushing into my chest, her thigh under my hand, and still having that barrier between us.
A few more times, and she didn't even need Donna's prodding. We were close, "kissing", when Donna suddenly whispered, "Shit – he's coming over!" I seized my chance, softened my lips, and began to kiss her for real. Her eyes opened wide, but her lips softened in turn, and for a brief second we kissed like lovers. I broke off, slowly, but didn't want to press too far at first. It would take time to break down all the barriers I had to, and I needed to take it easy, gaining a little ground each time.
"Nicely done!" Donna whispered, just before our guest arrived. Again, Mom's face was flush, and she looked either nervous or excited; a glance at the front of her blouse and her hardened nipples gave me a clue as to which she was becoming.
As the guy arrived, we all looked over at him, and I think I surprised him when I half-rose from the bench and leaned over with my hand extended. "You must be Brent," I said, and added, "I've heard a lot about you. Tom." He hesitated, but had no real choice but to shake my hand and repeat my fake name. I shook his hand firmly, but not too much so – nothing says overcompensation like a death grip or attempt to break someone's hand. His own grasp was a lot harder – of course – but I just kept smiling. He released my hand and I sat down. I was acting a little arrogant, but I wanted to put on a show for Mom. He spoke to them briefly, until Donna slid over with an impish grin and told him to stay for a drink. I could tell the guy was very image-conscious; he couldn't refuse without looking bad, so with a fixed smile that didn't touch his eyes he sat down.
He kept on talking to my mother, asking her all sorts of questions, quite obviously chatting her up. I couldn't accept it meekly – he was marking his territory – so I interrupted him and started talking to him myself. As I did, I put my left hand over my mother's right thigh, which was now crossed over her left, and began to stroke it once again. No way he could have seen it, but I was playing my part. After a second, Mom uncrossed her legs, leaving her thighs slightly apart, and I was thankful for that reflex. As I talked to my rival, my fingers were gently trailing along my mother's inner thigh, a little higher each time, until I was touching the hem of her skirt on the upswing. Her right hand was on my own thigh, and I felt it squeeze every now and again, seemingly purely out of reflex. My conversation with Brent wasn't purely civil, and got a little worse as it went. He was making subtle digs at my age, and I was happy to make my own at his. When he bragged about his "gorgeous girlfriend", I snorted and said that I was with the hottest thing in the room – my thigh got a long thankful squeeze for that - and asked him if his girl was so hot, why did he need to come over here? After letting him know that he'd never be able to handle Mom, heart wouldn't take it, he got red, finished his drink, and stood up.