Not again, Steven...this is ridiculous."
Annie Collins put her fists imperiously on her hips and glared at her son with a mixture of anger and despair. For his part, Steven had the grace to bow his head in shame.
"Which part of 'do your homework' don't you get?" she demanded. "Your math score is bad enough, but don't get me started on your English and Georgraphy. And look at you..." - She reached out and put a finger under his chin to tip his face up. "You look tired all the time, and I can't seem to get you out of bed in the morning."
Her question was rhetorical, because she felt sure she knew the reason for his failures at school and the dark patches under his eyes. Furthermore she sometimes heard the cause. Some nights, awakened by her snoring husband, Ken, she would gaze at the ceiling trying to hypnotise herself to sleep. But one night, a few weeks back, she had begun to hear noises. At first she thought it was the central heating pipes - which Ken had still not gotten around to fixing - but then she realized it was something else. The room next to theirs was their 18-year-old son Steven's. The sound she was hearing was his bed creaking. Initially she assumed her son was simply restless and turning heavily. Until the quality of the creaking changed. Became more rhythmical. The creak-creak-creak went on for some time, at first softly and then more assertively and faster. Faster and faster the bed creaked, and then, finally, the noise stopped.
"Oh, God," thought Annie, "when did you grow up, my darling son?"
It wasn't until next morning, when she caught him gazing intently at her while she made coffee, that she realized it had probably been all her fault. Steven had been studying her breasts through her sweater, and she felt his eyes track down to her bottom and then her legs.
She could only pray that she hadn't really been the cause. After all, he would have reached manhood all on his own, without any external encouragement, apart from the sight of all those pretty girls, and maybe some female teachers, at school. But...his own mother? No, that was ridiculous.
All she'd done was to adjust her pantyhose. A perfectly innocent, everything act. Though, now that she thought about it, it may only have been herself who saw it as an ordinary act. She'd been in a hurry to get to work that morning and realised while she was getting her paperwork together that her pantyhose didn't feel very comfortable. Steven was sitting over a bowl of cereal at the kitchen counter through the serving hatch and she was in the lounge. In a rush, as usual.
She'd sighed, reached down and started yanking at the pantyhose, pulling the nylon up first one leg and then the other. The shiny tan nylons made her shapely legs look their best (so her friend, Angela had told her) so she'd always worn the most expensive ones...typically Wolford Suntan. But as she'd reached up under the skirt of her suit, settling the nylon at the top of her thighs, running her finger across the crotch area between the edge of her panties and the top of her thighs, she felt she was being watched. She took a quick glance from under her brows and realized Steven was sitting there pretending not to look though it was obvious where his gaze was fixed. And now, another memory returned: she'd seen his arm moving beneath the counter, just slightly. She might have imagined it then but now she was convinced he'd been massaging himself while watching her adjusting her pantyhose.
Oh, God, she thought, you're such a terrible, thoughtless woman. And a bad mother.
Subconsciously she realized she must have been aware of how her son had been reacting, but some inner part of her had rejected the whole, shocking idea. Now, however, yet another sleepless night - for her and Steven both, apparently - had persuaded her it must be true.
Steven was responsible for his own poor grades, true enough. And Ken was of no help. Whenever she would broach the subject her husband would shrug it off, saying, "He's a teenager, Annie. Bottom line? He can always learn a trade - I'm no genius, and look at how well I've done."
No, she'd thought, perhaps unkindly, her husband certainly was no genius. But his plumbing business had provided well for them and for the most part Ken had always been a thoughtful husband. Except in the bed department. The first year or two of their marriage barely a day went by without sex. Good sex, too, though perhaps not as great as she'd led to believe it could be. Often, after an unimaginative workout during which she had fairly reasonable orgasm, and Ken had ejaculated thickly inside her, she would roll on her side and surreptitiously flick and tease her clitoris until she had a deeper and more satisfying orgasm. Poor Ken, it wasn't his fault. A domineering mother probably made him less assertive than she would have liked.
But her mother-in-law was a veritable angel compared to herself it now seemed. She had been responsible, albeit unwittingly, for helping her son fail his exams and maybe even psychologically disturbing him.
But reading some parent and psychology resources online helped reassure her that her son's reactions, and possible feelings toward her, were normal. Which didn't explain her own feelings toward him.
While trying to put the whole business out of her mind she found herself instead becoming more and more irritable with her son, and her husband. She was now continually giving Steven a hard time about his studies, and she didn't wish to hear any more of Ken's pearls of wisdom in relation to the boy's future prospects.
"If you're so worried about it, honey," he'd said one night after dinner, "Why don't you do something about it. See his teacher, guidance councilor, or help him out yourself, if it comes to that. You're the smart one in the family, after all."
While it was true Annie had graduated from college with a degree in history, she'd never done or achieved anything with the qualification. Apart from get married,that is. Though the degree helped her get work as a PA in an advertising agency, which paid reasonably well, though the work was mostly dull as ditch water.
The Math scores provided to be the final straw. Steven had failed all of the preliminary tests for this year, apart from music and art, in which he'd fared pretty well, scoring particularly highly in music theory (who knew? she mused, believing him to be mainly interested in clubbing and heavy metal music).
Her friend, Joan, had ventured she try a reward system.
She'd said, "You know, when my Katy was doing poor in science I offered her more pocket money, or I'd ask her if there was a special outfit she wanted, and if at the end of term she did well I'd buy it for her."
Annie had replied, "Ken will keep sneaking extra pocket money on Steven. The boy walks all over him."
"Well," Joan had replied, "If you're not both singing from the same hymn sheet, I don't know what to suggest. But threats don't work, I can tell you that much. Talk about inciting teenage rebellion!"
Annie had smiled at that; clearly Joan knew whereof she spoke.
This past weekend had been especially bad for her. Steven's bed had been creaking, as usual, and she'd found a stash of sticky tissues under his bed the next morning. When he'd come back into his room to see her reaching under the bed and scooping up the tissues to throw into the refuse bag she was holding, he went white.
"N-no, mom...please, I can clear up my own mess."
Something squeezed out of the bundle of tissues she was holding, a cold, gluey trickle, which also smelled musky and sweet. For some reason the sensation didn't revolt her. Instead she realized she was slightly excited.
"Don't worry about it, Steven. I can do it." When she threw the damp, stinky tissues into the bag she realized, too, how impressed she was with their quantity. He must have ejaculated many times that night. And the image of her son relentlessly tugging on his hard penis to make the white sperm shoot out of it, made her feel slightly weak at the knees. Indeed, when she went to the washroom a few minutes later, she pulled down her panties to have a pee and discovered the crotch was damp.
"Oh, no!" she said under her breath. Her body, it seemed, was sending messages her brain hadn't fully caught up with. How could she leak like that? Fantasizing about her own son?
She cleaned herself up and, rather weakly, pulled up her panties and pantyhose, the action reminding her the effect this act might have on her boy. She washed her hands, and hand to hold onto the side of the washbasin as she raised her eyes to her reflection. She was a full-figured, dark haired woman with almond eyes and full red lips, at 40 still very youthful looking. Though at the moment she felt she looked dreadful. Or at least a bit worn out.
As she emerged from the bathroom ran into her son. He collided with her gently, but she was aware of the hard muscularity of his body and she had to resist the urge to fling her arms around him and hug him close. Apart from anything else she was still pretty angry with him.
"Well," she said in an icy tone, "how's the homework going tonight?"
"Uh...sorry?" he said. "It's the weekend."
"And your point is...?"
"Well," he shrugged, "I guess it's more about chill out time, mom."
"Like the other days in the week with a letter 'y' in them, you mean?"
He sniggered, "Funny. That's funny, mom."
"Not to me," she said.
So that was that, for the moment. Steven went off to do whatever he did to chill out, while Annie was left fuming at her son, and angry with herself for having other than motherly feelings toward him.
Over the next few days she tried talking the issue over with Ken but he seemed pretty disinterested. She got so irritated with her husband at one point that she said, "He's not too old for a spanking, in my book."
Ken's eyes widened. "I take it you're joking..."
She replied with a smile, "Well, yes, of course I'm joking," though not certain that she meant it. An image came into her head, of draping Steven across her knees, pulling down his jeans and underpants and paddling his bare backside with her hand. She imagined his buttocks quivering and reddening, and...God help her...maybe his long, thick cock hardening against her thigh as she slapped his firm flesh over and over again.
That night, the image came back to her strongly and she turned on her side away from the deeply-sleeping Ken. She pulled up her nightie and slowly stroked and tickled her clitoris, imagining her son's thing twitching and throbbing against her leg as she spanked him. She imagined pulling her skirt up to her waist, reaching down and wrapping her palm and fingers around his shaft and slowly stroking it. And, as she imagined his thick sperm splashing onto the carpet, her insides melted and she was assaulted by a big, dirty wave of orgasm, which hit her so hard her leg and abdominal muscles went tight and her toes pointed down as the explosive sensations ran through her, making her convulse again and again in a deep shuddering series of cums.
Ken stirred, mumbled, "Y'all right, hun?"
"Mm..hmm," was all she could manage, trying to control her breathing. After a few seconds when she was sure her husband was asleep once more, she carefully pulled her satin nightdress down again, aware of the wetness on her thigh.
Feeling somewhat guilty about her erotic thoughts and behavior she spent much of the following day doing chores and cooking. She pushed the vacuum cleaner more vigorously than usual and clattered dishes furiously. But no matter how hard she worked she couldn't entirely escape sexual thoughts about her son. And so it happened that halfway through the day she pictured him with his penis in his hand, his fist bouncing up and down on his testicles that she had to go to the bathroom. Quickly pulling up her skirt and pushing pantyhose and panties to mid thigh, she stood in front of the sink and furiously fingered herself, and her juices wetting her fingertips almost immediately. Within minutes she felt an orgasm rising and suddenly it hit, making her belly clench and her thigh muscles tighten. The hot waves of it made her double over. She had to hold onto the edge of the sink to prevent herself from falling down as her legs weakened.
"Oh my God!" she breathed and looked up to gaze at her reflection. Her flushed pink face had an expression of shame but also of relief.
She was to repeat this sequence of events, or variants of it, over the next two weeks. Sneakily playing with herself in bed and rushing to the bathroom or back to her bed during the day. Her frenzied masturbation only got worse whenever she would hear Steven jerking off in his room.
Once, she threw open the door and saw him in his computer chair, slowly stroking his dick to an image of a woman in stockings and garter belt.
He turned, horrified that his mother had caught him out and quickly tried to cover himself with the tail of his shirt.
"Sorry," she mumbled and left the room fast. But that night she rolled over and put her arm over her husband's hip and began to massage his penis. It came semi-erect, but he mumbled, "Sorry, honey, too tired..." and so she was left frustrated and angry with her husband. And annoyed with herself, too. She didn't masturbate that night, but instead squeezed her thighs together tightly, pressing her vagina, squeezing the lips together in the hope that her arousal would dissipate. However, that next morning, it being a Saturday, Ken woke up and started playing with her. Soon she was aroused and, as he entered her in the usual missionary position she closed her eyes, imagining it was Steven on top of her, and she yelped with excitement.
Ken smiled as she clamped her hand over her mouth.
"Sorry," she whispered, "Only...it's been a while."
"Uh, yeah, I know...sorry."
But then she smiled and kissed him, urging him to fuck her long and slow. Often her orgasms with Ken were ordinary, slightly weak, but this morning, head filled with images of her son engaging in all sorts of perverse acts with her she positively exploded and had to bite Ken's shoulder to stop herself from screaming.
The day came a week later when Steven's latest exam results were in. All of them poor. He would have to resit all but three of his subjects. But, instead of getting mad, she merely sighed and shook her head.
"I feel like giving up," she told him, in front of Ken, at dinner that night.
"Well," she said and fixed her son with a calm steady gaze, "It seems as though your boy here isn't concentrating fully on his studies at night."
Steven's eyes widened and he half shook his head, as though to say, "Please don't tell dad about the porn."
She gave him a sly smile and said to her husband, "I guess he need a bit more encouragement and support, Ken. I know you do what you can, but I could be of more help, too. So, we might have to restrict the computer games for a while."
Ken shook his head, "That damned Xbox again?"
Steven looked hugely relieved. He said, "Y-yeah, dad, I guess...sorry. But my teacher's don't help, either. The stuff I'm good at is the stuff I have great teachers for."
"Well," said Annie, "not much we can do about that, except maybe some home teaching."
Ken replied, "We can't afford a tutor, Annie."
"No, I understand that." Then she looked across at her son and said, "I can give Steven some home tutoring myself."
Ken said, "It's been a long time since you were in college, honey."
To which Annie answered, "There are some things you never forget, though."
Yet another night passed in frustration. On the one hand she was irritated with Steven for being so lazy with schoolwork, and for under-achieving. She herself had been a smart student, and was a university graduate, and she believed at least part of that had to be genetic (her parents had both been university lecturers, mother in literature and father in astrophysics). On the other hand she was frustrated with her life, which may have compounded the sexual frustration she experienced; maybe one thing fed into the other, who knew?
Certainly compulsive sexual fantasies involving her son couldn't be healthy. But she'd tried to put them aside and had largely failed in the endeavor. Still, if she could do little to assuage those feelings, at least she might be able to encourage her son to do much better at his studies.
That next Saturday, Ken would be going away on a camping trip with his buddies. And that Friday, having decided on her course of action, she went shopping. Not in her own town, however, since word might have gotten around what she was shopping for (she hated the small town mindset, but figured she had to live with it and make adjustments accordingly). She made a day trip to her nearest city, Denver, and managed to find the stores she'd been seeking.
On her return she put her purchases in an old suitcase she hadn't used for years - it sat in the back of her wardrobe. And next morning, having kissed Ken farewell and told Steven he wouldn't be spending time with his buddies today, she closed and locked the front door.
Steven got up from the breakfast table with a scowl. "Why don't I get to go out, mom? And how come you've locked the front door? Afraid I'll make a break for it?"
"No," she smirked, though not feeling the bravado she presented, "I just want you to get some homework done. And maybe you can go out later on."
Steven sighed theatrically. "I never do homework on Saturdays."
"Well, young man, you do now. Now, go to your room, please."
With a grunt of displeasure, her surly teenage son complied, stomping heavy-foot upstairs to underscore his point.
Returning to her own room, Annie found she was trembling slightly. She eased out the suitcase and laid it on the bed. Flipping back the lid, she eyed the Secrets in Lace zip-sided girdle and smoke grey seamed stockings, still in their packaging. She peeled off her clothes, except for her black satin high-waisted panties, then unwrapped and wriggled into the girdle. She had to wiggle her hips from side to side to get it all the way up to her waist and breathed in a little to pull up the zip. She was fuller-figured than she used to be, and had never worn one of these garments, though she'd seen her own mother wriggling into a roll on girdle when she'd been a child.
She thought, fleetingly about what women back in the day had to wear and felt a little sorry for them. But, as she slowly pulled up a stocking, and affixed the three fat garters to the wide stocking welts, and ran her palms up the back to straighten the seams, she began to feel a little aroused. Certainly she could understand the appeal of stockings to men, but having only a couple of times previously worn lacetop nylons, the experience of donning such old style garments was new to her.
When she'd fixed the second stocking to her satisfaction, she adjusted her brassiere and put on a translucent black blouse with a low neck. Then she fished through her wardrobe rail and found a skirt she'd several times considered giving to a charity shop. It was a Chanel knee-length thing, which clung like a second skin; or did when she was younger and when her hips and thighs were not quite as heavy as they were now. She struggled to get the thing on, but the fact that the girdle compressed her belly and hips meant that she was able to fit into the thing, even with the black satin underskirt beneath. The sound of the zip reaching the waistline and the satisfaction of hooking the waist closed, gave her a sense of achievement.
When she stepped into her black high-heeled pumps, the look was complete. Well, apart from the makeup. She applied scarlet lipstick and then put mascara on her eyelashes, and pinned back one side of her thick, shoulder-length auburn hair, with a tortoiseshell hair fastener. She put on a pair of small earring to complete the look. She then checked herself out in the wardrobe mirror.
Not bad, she thought, for your age.
As she padded along the corridor, though, she began to feel terrifically self-conscious and at one stage almost turned three sixty degrees to go back to her room. She was so conscious of the way her nylons whispered as her thighs brushed together. And the fact that her garter straps and garter buttons were etched in outline in the too-tight skirt all seemed a bit ridiculous.
What the hell are you doing, woman? she wondered. And as she arrived at her son's door her urge to turn and walk away was powerful. She took several deep breaths, placing her hand on her abdomen to try to calm down. She was aware of the firm elasticated fabric of the girdle beneath her blouse - it was high-waisted, to compress her belly the more firmly, and it felt peculiar. She recalled her own mother struggling into roll-on girdles when she was a girl; she even remembered at the time feeling what she knew later to have been slight arousal at the sight. And a strange butterfly sensation in her stomach at the age of seven or eight watching her mother pull on stockings.
She took a final breath and, now with a sense of determination and excitement, she knocked on the door.
"Come in, mom."
Of course Steven had known she would have been standing there. He had been expecting her, it seemed.
He was sitting at the desk beside his bed, apparently studying. His course books were spread on the desk, and he laid his pen down on the notebook in which he'd been writing. He was wearing shorts, a t-shirt and sports socks. Annie was conscious of his firm muscles, his flat belly and muscular legs. She felt proud of his looks, at least, if not his brain.
"Well," she said, "I'm glad to see you're starting to take things more seriously, young man."
She grinned, shook his head. "Well, if it means I can get out of here later..."
She walked up to him and glanced at his notebook. The opened pages were blank. She flipped back a page and saw there were only a few badly-scrawled jottings, in which he'd managed in several sentences, to understand where an apostrophe went.
She sighed, pointed and said, "That's easy. If it's plural, no apostrophe. If there's a letter missing, or your talking about something that belongs to something else, you need an apostrophe. Here - " She leaned closer, picked up his pen and wrote "Steven's mother helped him with his homework. Steven has two pencils and two pens on his desk." "See - pens and pencils don't have an apostrophe. Simple, don't you agree?"
But her son was paying even less attention than usual when she would try to help him. Instead, she saw he was gazing hard at the front of her dress. She followed his gaze and saw he was staring right where her wide garters were outlined in the tight fabric.
She ruffled his hair. He was red faced when he looked up.
"Don't worry about it. I already know what you like. I saw you..." She hesitated, terrified she might be going too far.
"Wh-what?" Steven mumbled, as though afraid of the answer he might get.
"Well," she said, "I caught you looking at me in my pantyhose, for one thing..."
"Ah, no, mom!" Steven pushed back his chair and launched to his feet. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"So you're denying it?"
"Of course I am. You're my mother, for God's sake."
She put her hands on her hips. "Sit down, please, when I'm talking to you."
An expression of defiance on his face was shortly replaced with a meeker submission. He was angry, humiliated, and no doubt racked with guilt at having been found out.
She said, "That's better. Ok, let's just forget what I said. You'll only continue to deny it. So let me try something else."
A huge surge of fear knotted Annie's stomach. But it was accompanied by an equally huge feeling of excitement at what she was about to do.
Half dreading her son's reaction, she stood with her legs apart and slowly reached down until her fingertips touched the hem of her skirt. Then slowly, ever to slowly, she gather the skirt and underkirt, gripping them in her clawed fingers, and drew the skirt up above her knees.
Her son's eyes widened. She felt his gaze hot on the shiny nylon on her knees and lower thighs. Then, inch by inch, she pulled the garments higher. She had to wiggle a little because the skirt was so tight. The lower part of her stocking tops came into view first.
Steven's breath sounded ragged. Which, oddly, filled her with a sense of relief. This was the right course of action after all.
Finally, she wriggled and wrestled the skirt and underskirt all the way up until they were bundled around her waist. Her son's eyes practically popped out of his head as he drank in the sight of her dark stocking tops, fat garters, girdle and the crotch area of her black panties. Although slightly self-conscious of the way her motherly thighs bulged where the edge of the stocking tops bit into them, it was clear that her son didn't mind. He didn't mind one little bit, in fact.
A soft whimper emerged from him and his breathing grew labored.
She bent forward and spoke softly, skirt still raised for inspection. "Women on the internet aren't the same as real ones, honey."
"M-mom," said Steven weakly, "I...what are you doing?"
At this stage she wasn't entirely sure herself. But, after a moment's consideration, she said, "What I'm doing is trying to tell you that you could have options in your life." She pulled her skirt and petticoat down and went to sit on the edge of the bed next to her son's chair. He had his arms across his upper thighs, trying to hide the erection she noticed growing there. In fact, she had spotted the tip of his firm penis poking out from inside the leg of his shorts. He had tried to cover it quickly, but must have realized his mother had seen. The sight had made her breath catch a little though she also did her best to cover up, metaphorically speaking.
"A mother knows what her child wants, usually," she ventured.
Steven wouldn't catch her eye. He turned aside, in fact, and began shuffling his school books.
She put her hand on his bare leg and continued, feeling braver now, "I know what you want might seem a little...different...but, trust me, Steven, you're not so different from other boys your age."
"Mom, shut up, please. I don't wanna hear this."
He appeared to be growing angry. Though Annie knew full well this was mere bravado on his part.
"What," she persisted. "Are you trying to tell me you've never wanted to touch a woman?"
"Mom!" He seemed horrified. Though his expression suggested she was absolutely correct. Steven didn't have a girlfriend, at least she believed not. She'd always thought him too young for one, though his firm penis and the way he'd ogled her suggested otherwise.
"Listen, kid, I'm your mother. Nothing shocks me. And I love you, don't forget." With that, she reached forward,took his head in her hands and planted a sticky, lipsticked kiss on his cheek.
He shouldered her away. But half-heartedly, she felt. So she stood up, pulled him out of his chair and hugged him tightly. In so doing she levered her left thigh between his legs and felt the bulge of his cock against her.
Oh, sweet Jesus, it's so hard, she thought, but said,"I'm only trying to help you, my love. You know that, right?"
Steven pulled back, almost reluctantly she felt. He nodded slowly.
"I..g-guess so," he offered.
"Well, then. So we're agreed that mother knows best, right?"
She almost wanted to laugh at herself for coming out with that little gem, as she stood there, tight girdle and stockings beneath her skirt, and her son's cylinder of erect cock in the shiny blue satin of his shorts. It all seemed so ludicrous. And so deeply erotic all at once. Never before in her life had she felt so completely in control. Ken wasn't the domineering type, but somehow whatever he said went. She'd somehow acceded to his wishes through the years and had put her own dominating traits on hold. Now it was time to change that.
Steven put his hands defensively before his crotch. She pulled his hands away.
"No need for that, son. I already saw it." Then, bracing herself inwardly for what she knew must be her next course of action, she reached down, pulled up the leg of his shorts and wrapped her hand gently around the shaft of his cock.
Steven twitched, and let out a low whimper. But he didn't say a word. Then Annie pulled the thing out to its full length. It curved upwards to a sizeable six or more inches, the foreskin already peeling back a little from the already-red glans. then she brushed a fingernail up the skin between his testicles, making the whole penis convulse in her hand.
She looked down and saw already there was a small moist patch at the tip, a tiny trickle leaking out of the hole. All it would take, probably, was for her to stroke it a little, and...
Thinking the better of it, though, she flicked the shaft aside, gave it a gentle pat with the palm of her hand, and said, "Well, you've settled that dispute, honey. But you'd best put that away now, or you'll never get any studying done."
Steven's expression was priceless. He was horrified on one level, it appeared, humiliated, too, but also profoundly excited.
Good, thought his mother.
Then, turning on her heel and giving her ass a little wiggle and letting him see her stocking seams stretched across her calves, she said, "I'm off to make lunch. And I want to see some good writing in that notebook of yours later."
When Annie shut the door behind her she felt her legs go weak. She stepped over to the bannister on the walkway above the lounge and gripped the rail, letting out a long breath. She found herself trembling slightly. An overwhelming sense of having done something terrible induced in her a flush of panic. What if her son called the police? Or, equally bad, told his dad? Was she a terrible person for doing this?
"No," she told herself, and aware after a second she'd spoken aloud, "This is all okay."
He's my son, she thought, and he loves me. He knows I'd never harm him. Besides, he seemed to want what she was offering.
And, she understood that she in turn wanted what her son might be offering.
Back in her room she felt weak and had to sit down on her bed.
Oh, sweet Jesus in Heaven, she thought, she'd just held her own son's throbbing cock in her hand. And she'd loved it.
She half stood then and hiked her skirt up to her waist. She reached down and clawed at herself through her panties. She dug her fingertips into one side of her pubis and her thumb on the other, and squeezed as hard as she could, mashing her vaginal lips together as though she were squeezing an orange. And, like and orange, juice came out. She saw the silky material darken with the liquid that seeped out of her and experienced an erotic agony like nothing she'd ever felt before. She had such guilt about what she'd done with Steven that she wouldn't allow herself to masturbate. She did, however, stroke her middle finger up and down her slit, through the panties, a few times. She did it slowly, ensuring she caught her clitoris on the upward stroke. She shivered. Then, reluctantly almost, stopped. She then peeled off her shoes and stockings and removed her skirt. Struggling out of the girdle, she pushed it down and kicked it away from her across the floor, angry with herself for many reasons, all of them jumbled in her mind.
Finally, it dawned on her that she'd been sitting on the bed in her bra and panties, she got dressed. In jeans and a blouse, socks and running shoes. This was more usual momwear for the weekends, after all.
Finally she returned the offending garments to the secret suitcase and put the case back inside the wardrobe.
That evening, after she'd served up dinner to Ken and her son, she asked Steven to help her wash up. Her husband, as usual, was glued to the baseball on TV. The kitchen was open plan and only a worktop divided it from the lounge area, from where she could see the TV - and the back of Ken's head as he lazed, arm outstretched with a can of beer on the back of the couch.
Every so often as he dried and stacked the crockery Steven would glance up at her. Once in a while his eyes would flick across her breasts. Her nipples were still hard from earlier and she were creating bumps in the front of her t-shirt (the tight t-shirt she'd changed into just before dinner). She'd worn a half-cup brassiere and had hooked the edge just below her nipples deliberately to make sure something would show beneath the t-shirt material; Ken wouldn't notice, she was certain. What mattered was that her son did.
She said, "How did you get on with your homework, Steven?"
"Uh, okay, I guess. You want to see it?"
She nodded, "Uh-huh. Why don't you bring it down and me and your dad could look at it together."
Was that disappointment she saw on his face?
Inwardly smiling, she added, "Who knows, if it's any good you might get some extra...pocket money." She winked, as though hinting that "pocket money" might be a euphemism.
As Steven headed upstairs she finished putting away the dishes, wiped her hands on a dishcloth and joined her husband on the couch. He was to preoccupied with the game to look at her, but he managed to acknowledge her presence by saying, "There's a good movie on later, if you like."
"Sure," she offered, though a Saturday night movie was the last thing on her mind right now.
When Steven returned he stood behind the couch and proferred his notebook.
"What's this?" asked his father, craning back his head to address his son directly.
"Homework," said Steven. "Mom's gonna check it for me."
"On a weekend?" Ken shook his head theatrically, "Jeez, what's the world coming to?"
Annie chuckled, "Yeah, I mean really, Steven; this is a first."
Steven, wisely perhaps, made no reply. Instead he came around the couch and sat on the armchair nearest his father.
"Why don't you grab a soda, Steve?" Ken shook the empty can, adding, "And another Bud for me, if you don't mind."
Steven got to his feet, took the empty can from his father and headed for the refrigerator. While he was there Annie opened the notebook to the appropriate pages. It was the start of an essay about the play "Death of a Salesman" by Arthur Miller. The opening sentences were pretty good, too, albeit with the odd spelling mistake. As she read on, she was pleased to learn that her son had managed to grasp the essence of the play, but deviated from formal essay style.
When he returned to his seat and popped open his can of Coke, she said, "Pretty good, son. Though I don't think you should describe Willy Loman as a 'looser'."
Ken laughed, "But he is, though."
Annie bristled slightly. "Not at all. Besides, you need to write essays formally, Steven. Anyhow, good job."
Closing the notebook, she held it out for her son to take from her. And, a he reached out to take it, she winked at him.
TO BE CONTINUED...