Who's Your Daddy?

When she came out of the back she was blushing as much as I had been. Though she wouldn't show me exactly what she settled on, she did say that she would need a new bra and some lace stockings. Angie's big smile was invigorating and she whispered in my ear, "I'll compromise with you, the dress is tight and a bit short but it's elegant-looking and should provide support where I need it. I hope you'll like the final product." She looked happier and more excited that I'd seen her in years. She kissed my cheek and squeezed my hand warmly, as she breezed around the store.

On the ride home, all she could talk about was our upcoming "big date," and that she hoped I would be pleased with both her look, and with her new attitude. She also mentioned that maybe a sip of wine when we got home would sooth her nerves. She even cuddled next to me during the ride, with her arm crooked in mine and her head on my shoulder. I could feel her shiver a bit once again and she would giggle to herself. Her body appeared to glow and she felt uncommonly warm against me, but I took that for general excitement. When she wasn't asking questions about where I would be taking her, she softly hummed to herself with her eyes closed. Now, she was making me nervous.

The dinner was tonight and after sending my sister to her sleepover, mom and I prepared for our evening. I wore a dark jacket and open-collared shirt and was waiting downstairs, while I heard doors and drawers slamming for the next hour. Finally, she came down the steps and entered the room.

It was breathtaking to see. Mom's beautiful dark hair was worn long and full as it laid upon her shoulders and half-way down her back. It looked as if it had been curry-combed, it shown like rich satin and framed her face in deep layers of jet-black waves. Angie's warm, chocolatey eyes were lined at the rim, the edges tailing

off like a cat's. Her olive complexion highlighted the prominent cheek bones and set-off the pink tint of her pouty, lightly glossed, lips. She had a seductively enticing sparkle to her brown orbs that I had only seen in movies and an alluring half-smile that seemed torn between show-casing her delight at the moment, and holding back some secret fantasy that threatened to burst at the seams.

She twirled and pranced, allowing me to peruse her curvy body from every angle. Then she squeezed her marvelous tits together and bent forward and back, asking me how she looked and whether the outfit met my expectations. She was bare-footed, but holding a pair of 4-inch, strappy sandals. As I mentioned, Angie is tall and with heels on, those long, toned gams would bring her close to my height of about six-feet. She was debating whether or not she needed to wear stockings, and amazingly asked my opinion. I like seeing her in hose, but with her lovely tan and the warm weather, I said she should remain as is.

The translucent black dress that she chose was a silken sheath that hugged her curves and landed just below the knee, with a generous, sensual slit running up to her left hip. I've known for years that her sleek legs would not look out of place on a fashion runway. And I believed that there could be no excuse in this instance, to hide them behind any more material. She agreed with a wide, white smile. Tossing the sexy stockings and garter aside she purred, "We'll just save these for another occasion." At my surprised expression she remarked, "You have a birthday soon, for your present I may model them with another little outfit I haven't shown you yet."

By now, there was a noticeable mountain taking the crease out of my dress pants and nervous perspiration dampened my extremities. Angie had never been so open and flirty with me and she seemed to be pleased with the affect it was having. I hadn't said or done a wayward thing since she entered the room, except to allow more visions of my sexy mom in erotic poses, performing blatantly pornographic seductions on my bewildered body. A second lump formed in my throat as my gaze climbed from her long stems up to her magnificent bustline. My mom is a solid C-cup, about a size 36.

I obviously had never seen her naked but there are enough family situations that permitted me a chance for thorough observation, and I can confirm that with only the slightest nod to gravity, her boobs rode high and firm with the pink nipples pointing straight out. And when bunched together in a tight top, they formed a cavernous cleavage that would produce a deep echo if someone managed to smack their lips together while in between them. A situation that I would have offered my left gonad, to make happen.

Here she was, bending and stretching in all directions, challenging the elastic of the dress and the underwires of the bra, to be certain that no matter how she might be required to move, all of her delicious parts would remain in place. As I watched in absorbed delight she smiled, watching my rapt expression and cooed, " I want to be sure that no one but you sees me like this." What I was seeing, would be enough to fulfill fantasies for years. Every movement showed a different view of those smooth, round globes as they strained and bounced in an attempt to free themselves from the unnatural restraints imposed upon them, and I was rooting for their escape! She must have realized the effect that her sensual gyrations were having on me. Sure I'm her son, but any red-blooded male would be shaking, ready to explode.

But as much as I was enraptured with the sexual gymnastics, mom could see a slight shadow creep across my face as she twirled and posed before me. With my enlarged cock so obscenely on display and making it obvious that my silent intentions manifested more than a mere mother/son moment; all telltale signs, like my tongue flapping loosely with slobber drooling down my chin, and my eyes bulging forward to compete with my erection, it must have been alarmingly apparent that I was in the grip of an uncontrollable deviant, incestuous daydream. And still, my mother only smiled subtly, though her olive skin was turning pinkish around her cheeks and tiny laugh-lines creased the edges of her mouth and eyes. But on her chest, two swollen protrusions began to rise and stretch the taut fabric to its silky limits.

I was anticipating a sharp or atleast snarky remark, regarding my pronounced, illicit desires. Then she casually inquired, "Well, what do you think? Something seems to have caught your eye. Would you be totally embarrassed to be seen with me in this dress?" She spun slowly around watching my every gesture. She bounced on her toes and leaned forward, carefully supporting her tits with one arm incase of a wardrobe malfunction. All the while, she checked the mirror to see if the sides exposed her too much, or if you could look right down the cantilevered front. Then she stopped suddenly, appraising my expression and sheepishly begged for an answer. "It's awful isn't it? I look ridiculous, huh. Like I'm trying to look too young. Or do I look like a harlot? Are you ashamed of me? Tell me please?"

The thing that captured my attention and triggered such consternation seemed trivial at the time, but quickly turned into another spark, that heated our new dynamic. It was just a silly little thing, like finding some fault with a brushstroke on the Mona Lisa. And truly, at first I mentioned it only to save my mother from some trifling regret. I should have just ignored it because what do I know about fashion, but the confused look registered on my face, and Angie was not about to let it drop. She was so ebullient at the moment that I hated playing any role that would burst her bubble. But soon, I again saw confirmation that my opinion or desires touched her so dearly, and eventually, this tiny flaw revealed major secrets.

"You don't like it, tell me truly Peter. I look terrible and ridiculous don't I?" The big smile and high spirits had completely vanished, and now she was nearly in tears. Her entire mood changed and she was plainly shaken, and as of yet, I hadn't said anything at all. She was searching so hard for a way to impress me and seemingly begging for my favors, even going so far as to appear before me half-naked and sexually tantalizing, and I her hurt feelings without any intention towards that. It was time to speak-up.

"Mom please," I stuttered to explain and attempted to bring the smile back to her face and hopefully salvage the evenings high expectations. "You look gorgeous. Sexy and beautiful." I tried to lighten the mood with humor. "I was just thinking about how many fights I might get into, trying to keep other guys away from my girl." Her sobbing subsided and she hugged me, pressing those marvelous mammaries against my body. Her body was trembling and she finally regained her composure; sniffling and looking up at me with watery eyes, as I reassured her that she looked stunning, and with the bulge at my groin rubbing her belly, I believe that I convinced her.

With a practiced hand gliding through her dark locks to re-establish her coif, and a deft swipe at her make-up for just the perfect touch-up, she once more, looked like a fantasy MILF. And my ultra-taboo illusions towards family debauchery were again, bubbling like a witch's cauldron through my loins. But then with a puppy dog's wounded expression and in a little girl's tone, she badgered me for an answer to her mystery.

It was truly nothing. I can't believe that I had allowed it to spoil the mood. But she wanted to know what affected my attitude. There she was, this beautiful, sexy woman- forgetting for only a second that she was my mother- flaunting and flirting infront of me for some unheard-of reason, even pleading for my attention, and I was nit-picking something stupid that I shouldn't even had noticed.

Her slinky black dress appeared to have been painted-on to her sleek torso, (and by a true artist.) There was only the slightest sign of a rounded belly, but even the Russian judges would not have marked her down for that. It had thin spaghetti straps that clung to her soft shoulders and strained to contain the well-rounded melons that were so daintily tucked away behind the frilly bodice of the nearly transparent material. The deep open front of the dress showed her two firm globes bordering a well-defined, vertical indenture that signaled her abundant decolletage.

In the mirror, I spied her back, amazed that there was even less of the gauzy silk. Her entire back was exposed in a tanned, bold "V" that showed her graceful body and the muscles along her ribcage that rippled with each motion and enhanced the gentle slope of her spine. Your eye followed the arrow shape of her upper body until it all disappeared into the expanding cleft of her luscious ass. The smoothly curved tops of her butt were concealed in only the sheerest of lace-topped, black panties. Almost everything was perfect.

But there was one thing- one minor flaw- that my eye centered on and marred the picture. A very thin, very delicate bra strap that cut across her back, bisecting that smooth, tanned flesh. And it continued around to the front where the twin lacy cups peeked through the gossamer linen and detracted, (in my view,) from the erotic vision of female sensuality that was on full display right in front of me. That was the dilemma. The back was extremely enticing, except for that strap. And the front appeared as if some prudish committee took a black marker and covered-up a sexual image of a mature, sensuous siren. But how could I ever tell my mom that she should remove her bra from underneath such a sheer outfit, or even more vulgarly, that she should permit me to see her tits?

"Mom," I haltingly began, taking her gently by the shoulders and spinning her infront of the mirror. I instantly saw her fine eyebrows arch with distaste and a sour smirk wrinkled her lips. She had taken such pains to look great on her entrance, that other than how her ass appeared when she walked in heels, her back was generally forgotten. But the plunging back showed about one square foot of flesh both above and below the bra line. I knew straight away that we secretly agreed, but I was getting the nagging feeling that we had widely different perspectives.

Angie ofcourse, wanted to appear elegant and desirable, (though not necessarily for me.) I on the other hand, wanted to see as much of her sexy body as I could get away with. We both came to the same conclusion while staring into the glass. And we spoke, almost in chorus, "Its the bra, it just doesn't look right."

Her shoulders slumped dejectedly as she surveyed her reflection and her hands reached to cup her bountiful breasts. I could see that she was not only weighing her full tits, but figuratively, weighing all of the factors involved in making her next decision. Was she really considering going without a bra?

It was strange that we were looking at the same image but seeing two different things. She was facing me and peering over her shoulder, seeing only the black strap that stood-out against her smooth, warm body as if it were gouged into her lovely frame. "Oh, Petey, what am I going to do? I spent $65.00 on this bra and it looks ridiculous. I never thought how the strap would look with this backless dress, I didn't try them together. I only have two other black bras, and in this outfit, they'll both make me look like I'm smuggling grapefruits. My only slips are light-colored.

And I have to wear a bra, you can see right through this material."

She looked again at the front with a suspicious stare. "This bra is so pretty and holds me together just right. From the front it looks great, from behind it looks stupid. What do you think I should do? You'll only need to fight someone, to keep them from laughing at me." Once again, she was almost in tears. She saw the esthetics of the problem, both of the front and the back. There was no way to hide the bra strap and it was obvious by the manner in which her palms covered her big tits, that she was picturing just how transparent this dress appeared, and especially how much of her bodacious bosom would be evident if she foregoes the support.

I noticed the thin, delicate material across her back and actually found it to be temptingly erotic. Afterall, I couldn't imagine any other procedure, certainly not where my mother was concerned. I think she slept in a bra. But I was much more interested, and reflexively drawn to that gaping neckline and the sensuous vision of her full, pliant globes being gently lifted and slowly pushed together. The cups looked dainty, with frilly scalloped edging and just enough decorative stitching hiding the prominent areolae that crowned each softly swaying breast.

She was asking me to examine her chest as she held the heavy orbs like plump pillows between her fingers, and decide how she would look best. My cock was ready to explode. I could feel the shaft expanding and the warm fluid begin its rise up the throbbing column of ivory flesh. I could feel it pressing against my thigh, maneuvering for space to expand, and feeling the hot friction with every movement, as the temperature in my pants started to soar. It was so hard against my groin, and so close to it's bursting point, that I was forced to plunge one hand beneath the waistband and wrestle the engorged snake into a more comfortable position before I passed-out from the pressure.

I sheepishly looked-up and caught her wide, brown eyes staring right at me with an open-mouthed expression of awe. Was I kidding myself or did she take my rough handling of my serpent to be a compliment? I wasn't sure what reaction to expect. Nothing could have prepared me for what came next. She didn't say anything, though a rather lustful grin flashed quickly and disappeared on her face. Did she appreciate that her nearly bare chest caused my cock to grow stiff? She barely moved. A fine shimmer of perspiration brought a moist glistening to her upper chest and around her lips and forehead. Another pink blush added color to her dark complexion. Then most surprisingly, as I was observing the subtle heaving of her chest, I noticed that her fingers spread slightly around the bouncing melons and she seemed to be applying a little extra pressure to the full bottoms of each breast, as if delicately balancing water balloons in her palms. Even through the black, satiny material, the spherical outline of her tits and the pointy tip of each nipple became evident. Angie was staring directly at me, but her thoughts seemed elsewhere. Did she know that she was playing with her tits right in the face of her son? Did she want me to watch... or to do something more? She shook her head as if coming out of a dream.

She was biting her lower lip and her bare feet shuffled back and forth, slowly she lifted her head to me. "What do you think Petey? Do you think I could wear this without a bra? Do you think I would look like a slut, or like a silly old lady trying to act young? You have to tell me, honestly!"

I couldn't speak. My tongue felt too big for my mouth, and too dry even to be a tongue. And my cock just wouldn't play nice. It was engorged and threatening to tear through my pants. I felt that if any more blood rushed to my pelvis, I might have a stroke. I could only mutter dumbly and nod my head like a bobble headed doll. "Mom," I couldn't believe that I was saying this out loud, "Maybe we should see what it looks like without it?"

Angie nodded her head, resigned to this decision. With her long locks obscuring her face she seemed poised for a momentous choice. Gradually, she turned her back to me, though I could still see her profile in the mirror. Then my every taboo fantasy came true, and I was the one beginning to shake. With a heavy inhale, Angie as casually as possible given the situation, shimmied the thin spaghetti straps of her dress, off her moist, slightly trembling, shoulders and down to her waist. The black material lay gathered in folds, bunched at her hips and her back was bared to me. Then she reached both hands behind her and unhitched the two clasps holding her foundation in place. As the slinky linen fell loose, her hands moved to the front, where I could see in the reflection, a shifting moment of indecision as she gripped the soft cotton tight to her chest. I was nearly doubled over in delirium. I couldn't catch my breath. The seconds lasted forever, I was in agonizing anticipation.

There she was, my mom, topless and clutching a strip of fabric to her bare breasts. Her hands held her globes like they were melons and she was testing them for ripeness. As the big tits rested in her palms, her fingers splayed on the undersides with her thumbs massaging the rubbery tips. Whether it was this twisting action or some lewd image darting through her brain, the perky nubs enlarged and stiffened under her warming touch.

"Here goes," she murmured. With a mere tug, the feathery undergarment slithered from her chest, revealing to me in the glass, almost the entirety of my mother's amazing physique. Both of her heavy tits bounced heartily as if enjoying their new freedom. Tiny buttons of gooseflesh rippled the darker skin surrounding each nipple and further stiffened the eraser-like lumps. The swollen globes settled nicely above her ribcage and the tight cleavage relaxed to show a shallow, shaded valley between two mountainous crests. She tentatively glanced at the mirror and caught my hungry expression as I ogled her luscious torso and fought to restrain my hands from anything else that would be stupid.

I thought that I detected a brief, satisfied smile as she hurriedly pulled the dress back into position and her hands rearranged the bodacious frontage, so that all parts fit correctly and (most) everything was covered. She slowly, shyly pivoted to face me. "Well," she asked after taking an audibly heavy breath and very obvious hard swallow. "What do you think, now? Should I go out like this? Is it too much? Tell me." The dress was designed to display her obvious assets and yet to camouflage any indiscreet points, and it worked well. But her last few minutes spent agitating her nipples, stretched the delicate needle work to its limit. She was standing before me, not quite knowing what to do with her hands while I studied her near-naked form through the shadowy lace of her dress. We were both embarrassed to be put in this awkward position but there was undoubtedly a sense of crude, animalistic lust in the air. Our bodies over-heated with sweat, and our mouths filled with slobber as we hungrily searched each other's anatomy for signs of very illicit carnal passion. And those signs were flashing like a warning signal.