Turning the Tables Ch. 02

The following story is fictitious, of an explicit and adult nature. Like everything else on Literotica, this story is not meant to be viewed by anyone under the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18, offended by adult material or such material is barred by the standards of your community, please leave this page now.

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The remainder of that September day passed in virtual silence.

After the events of the morning, Mike spent a couple of solemn hours in his room. His casement windows cranked ajar, the crisp autumn air lightly scented with sweet-leafy decay filled his lungs. Mike's spinning mind was a ramshackle of a thousand thoughts and no thoughts at all, trying to make sense out of what had just happened.

Downstairs, Patty was gripped with remorseful euphoria. Her body propelled by adrenaline, she placed the now spotless bakelite ashtray on the coffee table, returned to the kitchen and sorted the wilting groceries, making sure that they found their rightful place in the avocado colored fridge. Her mind ran frantic with questions of lasting effects and potential scenarios. Whether her envisioned inventions were prophecy or paranoia, she could not tell.

At four thirty, Mike came downstairs to leave for his Wednesday evening European History class at Charter Oak College. He wanted to stay, so many questions raced through his consciousness, but when he glanced at the living room and saw that his mother was nowhere to be found, he was relieved. His chest loosened. Mike opened the front door, strode down the tarblack driveway to the white Chevy Laguna with the chocolate vinyl roof, tossed his books on the shotgun seat, turned the key and let her roll.

Mike's father returned home from work at a quarter to six. Patty had his dinner ready and waiting. Throughout dinner, she kept wondering if some telltale sign would give her away, if the mark of Cain was emblazoned on her forehead. But by the time that the last morsel of pilaf was hefted from plate to mouth, nothing gave her secret away. And she smiled to herself.

The sleepy gold and rust colored suburban hamlet was as silent as Pinelawn when the Chevy Laguna slowly rolled to a halt, the red tail lights extinguished, making the night as tarblack as the driveway. When Mike entered the house, the only illumination was the frosty azure glow of the television radiating from the living room where his mother and father sat on the couch watching Quincy, M.E. For a brief moment, his eyes locked with Patty's. But he strode up the stairs to his room, aware of the futility of the moment.

Thursday was new.

Mike's father dressed in the cobalt glow of the newborn day, unknowing and happy. Patty stirred beneath the covers, and did not emerge from her chamber until the salmongold rays of the new sun roused her to consciousness. Ensconced in chenille, Patty plodded down the stairs, crossed through the living room and entered the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When the doors swung open, she noticed mike drinking orange juice over the sink, wearing nothing but his boxers.

"You're up early," Patty croaked, her first words of the day.

"Oh, hi!" Mike spun around, startled.

"Look, Mike, about yester ..."

"No, no ... it's OK. You were right. I was wrong to take your property without permission ... you were ..."

"I know you're sorry. I know it won't happen again."

Patty reached out and gently cupped his cheek with her palm. She brewed a pot of coffee and poured two cups. They sat silently at the kitchen table. Patty gazed at her reflection in the blackness of her cup and smirked.

"I was pretty angry yesterday."

"Yeah." Mike chuckled.

"But I want you to know that I'm not angry anymore. Mike, I want you to be honest with me ... I know that we crossed a line yesterday ... How do you feel about ... what happened?"

Mike looked down at his coffee cup, not quite sure of what to say. "Well, I don't know," Mike chuckled. "At first I was embarrassed, then I just felt kinda wierded out, you know?"

"Yes," Patty grinned. "I know exactly what you mean. And I also know that it might be hard for you, living here with us. Men need something to get the blood flowing, so to speak. That's why your father took those pictures in the first place. So, I understand why you were using them ... like you did."

After an awkward pause, Patty continued.

"Mike, I also don't want you to feel inhibited ... I don't want to feel inhibited ... do you follow, Mike?"

"I'm not sure ..."

"No hang-ups ... you can masturbate anywhere in the house you want, any time you want, as long as your father's not home."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I'm not sure. But I thought about it ... I thought about it a lot, and I just think it's more honest like this. It's more open."

"I dig."

The rest of Thursday passed without incident.

Friday morning came, and when Mike descended the stairs he sensed a funkysweet smell in the air, the aroma of feminine muskiness. He glanced over to the couch, and there was Patty.

She was laying on the couch, one thick-thighed leg up on the back cushion, her other foot on the floor. Her head was back, her lips pursed. She rubbed herself furiously with her right hand, only intermittently interrupting herself to lick her fingers. Mike's first instinct was to turn away ... run before she can open her eyes and see him ... but then he remembered their conversation the day before. No hang-ups.

Mike walked into the living room. Sensing his presence, Patty opened her eyes.

"Oh, hey ... you're up," she murmured dreamily as her son came into focus. "There's plenty of room on the couch, and you can watch what you like on TV."

He sat down on the last sofa cushion, his mother's foot about two inches from his head. Television be damned, he couldn't take his gaze off of his mother's self-pleasure. He noticed something that he didn't originally see when he came down the stairs, a cucumber half swallowed by his mother's pussy.

Mike was transfixed. He noted that the dark green Kirby was thick and bumpy. He focused on how the silky flesh of her lips enveloped it. Her face and breasts were sweaty scarlet.

"As long as you're sitting there," Patty said breathlessly, "can you help me a little?"

"Help?" Mike mumbled, confused.

"Yesssss ... take the cucumber and slide it in and out."

"I ... I don ... "

"Pleeeeeeease, Mike! Pleeeeease," Patty implored.

Nervously, Mike got up from the couch and positioned himself so that he could grip the exposed end of the Kirby. It slid in and out with ease, and within a few seconds Patty barked a loud scream. Her eyes rolled back as her trembling body seized.

Breathless, she placed her hand on his, as a signal to stop sliding the cucumber. She lay there drenched in sweat, panting.

"Wow," Mike almost whispered.

Patty smiled," Yes, it feels really good to be filled up like that. Thank you for helping me out." Patty removed the cucumber and let it drop to the floor.

Mike had never seen a woman masturbate like that before, and the experience hit his subconscious like a freight train. He removed his boxers and, as he did so, his hard cock slapped against his mother's bare thigh, and she chuckled.

He sat down on the couch, leaned back, and began to stroke. He moved slowly, up and down. Patty now sat erect.

"Honey, if you keep doing that with no lubrication, you're going to rub the skin right off of it. Hold on, I'll be back in a second."

With that Patty sprung up from the couch and ran out of the living room. She returned a few moments later with a jar of cold cream. She placed the jar on the coffee table, and sat down next to him. Then she took a large dollop of cold cream in her palm.

"OK, Honey. Just take your hands away for a sec..."

"Bu ..."

"Shhhhh!" Patty prohibitively hissed. "Just let it feel good."

Patty took Mike's erect penis in her hands and slathered it with the cold cream. She pressed her left hand flat against his chest and began stroking him very slowly and lightly with her right.

Mike's penis grew in size and hardness. His masculine scent inspired Patty to quicken her pace and increase her grip in slight increments. She could feel him breathe, each breath becoming shallow. His head lolled back. She could feel his balls tightening with her pinky. And his body seized. Warm spurts of her son's semen coated her hand, mixing with lathered cold cream. Mike took deep breaths.

"Thank you," Mike whispered.

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