Jessica smiled sympathetically and reached across the kitchen table. She took my hand and squeezed it, offering comfort and support.
“It’s been two weeks, Ken. It's time to put her affairs in order.”
I nodded. It was.
“Would you like me to go with you?” she offered. “I can take time off work. The kids can look after themselves for a few days. Or I can get my sister to keep an eye on them.”
I squeezed my wife’s hand in gratitude. She was such a wonderful woman.
“No. Thank you. I think I want to do this alone.”
“It won’t be easy,” Jessica observed, her soft brown eyes sympathetic.
“It’s what I need,” I assured her.
“Okay. I’ll pack your bag,” she told me. “You book the flight.”
It was so Jessica. Discuss, decide, do. No fussing around. No second-guessing. And once the decision is made, give it her full support, no matter if she agrees or not. To her, dithering is a waste of time and energy. It was one of the many personality traits that made me love her like crazy, even after almost two decades.
I stood, bent, and kissed her. “Thanks, honey.”
Sixteen hours later I turned the rented Chevy into the unassuming drive of a moderate bungalow, one of many in the small residential development built back in the fifties.
I parked and climbed out. The scent of freshly mowed grass filled the air. It pleased me to see the lawn trimmed, taken care of. The gardening service I’d arranged for was doing what they’d been contracted to do; a rare occurrence in my experience.
I leaned on the Chevy roof, door still open, and looked down the street. Each house showed caring owners: yards neat and tidy; bungalows of different sizes, some with attached garages, some with carports; all homes a mix of brick and painted wooden siding, the colors of which provided most of the differentiation.
In my mind’s eye I saw the families that had lived here so long ago: the Kendrick’s with three kids, one, Jimmy, a friend I’d grown up with; the Farhavens and their daughter Betsy who’d been my first crush, blonde and blossoming; Mr. Larsen, the only widow on the street, kindly and always ready to fix my punctured bike tires; and Mr. and Mrs. Gerald in the bright red painted house, Mrs. Gerald young, pretty, and in the habit of getting her morning paper wearing risqué nightgowns, her hair in curlers.
Closing the Chevy door, I opened the back and grabbed my overnight case and headed up the drive. Two white columns supported a peaked overhang covering the porch. A white wicker chair sat empty to one side. Mom liked to sit out on it and watch life go by in the close-knit neighborhood.
Fishing in my pocket, I found the key ring and opened the white front door. Familiar scents washed over me when I stepped inside; furniture polish and perfume - Mom’s specter still haunting the house. A pile of mail littered the floor.
Closing the door, I paused. Not much had changed through the years. This was the home I’d grown up in. It was the home my mother and I shared, my father having passed away young from lung cancer. This was the house where I’d laughed with my mother, where we’d argued, where I’d been spanked at four years old for coloring on the walls in the hall.
I dropped the overnight case and wandered into the living room. Memories rushed back at the sight of familiar furniture carefully taken care of. The old television in the corner was the same, needing several minutes to warm up before I could watch Saturday morning cartoons; The Jetsons, Fred and Barney in the Flintstones, Mighty Mouse. The couch was the same - solid wood with floral upholstery, two matching armchairs, and a solid wood coffee table.
I remembered Mom being so proud of the new pale yellow wall-to-wall carpet and how well it went with the cream painted walls. She’d painted the wooden trim a matching yellow herself. And I remembered how soft the carpet felt on my bare feet in the mornings.
To the left, the mahogany dining table reflected light from sliding glass doors facing the back yard. Dust had collected on the surface. Mom wouldn’t have let that happen. In my mind’s eye, I saw her polishing it with Pledge, then adjusting the centerpiece, a porcelain spring flower basket.
Walking through the dining room, I studied framed photographs on the wall and side cabinet. There I was at three years old, in formal pants and shirt after Dad’s funeral, looking somber and holding Mom’s hand. Despite the sadness in her face, Mom was beautiful back then. Her black dress, black nylons, conservative black shoes, a small black hat with the veil up, and black gloves and handbag couldn’t hide her looks.
Next to it, in a fancy silver frame, Dad and Mom looked so young, radiantly happy newlyweds. She’d been so pretty at twenty-one, her life ahead of her, optimistic, in love. Dad, despite his serious expression, showed pride in his eyes. He’d landed a beautiful woman. She’d chosen him. It was in his stance, his chest out, standing tall and slender.
I pulled my cell phone out and dialed.
“Hi. It’s me. I just wanted you to know I’ve arrived.”
Jessica’s voice was soft. “How are you doing? Is it hard?”
“I’m okay. I feel like I’m a kid again. Everything I look at brings it back.” I paused for a moment, still looking at the photo of my parents. “This is going to be difficult. I’m not sure I want to get rid of things. It might take more than two days.”
“Take all the time you need, Ken. If you want, put everything in storage and we’ll deal with it together later, when it’s easier. Are you sure you don’t want help?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. So little has changed. It’s a walk down memory lane.”
“Well, call me if you need to talk. Don’t get too sad, honey.”
“I won’t. Talk to you tonight. Love you.”
I hung up and entered the kitchen. White cupboards, thick with paint, framed the kitchen window, curtains pulled to the sides. The tap at the sink dripped slowly. The speckled Formica counter was uncluttered, unlike when I’d been young. Back then, Mom always had something cooking or baking, providing for two. I wondered if she felt lonely after I married and moved away. She claimed not, but I didn’t believe her.
Two porcelain jars with pretty painted daisies held kitchen spoons, spatulas, and other implements. The electric stove was olive green, matching the old Frigidaire refrigerator and an electric Kenwood mixer on the counter. In my mind, I could hear that mixer running, my excitement at Mom baking a chocolate Devil’s food cake. I could see Mom, well dressed even when cooking, with her apron on, flouring two pans, and baking chocolate, powdered sugar, butter and a bottle of vanilla on the counter waiting for icing to be made, a double boiler on the stove warming to melt the butter and semi-sweet chocolate squares.
I smelled it now; the aroma of cake baking in the oven.
Moving to the small, chrome and Formica kitchen table, I pulled out a chair and sat exactly where I used to as a kid. I heard Mom chatting away, asking me about school and friends while pouring batter into pans. And I saw her smile at me, her blue eyes bright, blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, her flowery apron.
She brought the bowl and spatula over. “You can clean the bowl, but promise you’ll eat all your dinner.”
I could taste the chocolately batter and feel it smear on my cheeks, my excitement that the next bowl to be licked clean would be icing - my favorite.
Gingham curtains framed the kitchen window, the one Mom used to watch out through as she washed dishes, keeping an eye on me and my friends as we built cardboard forts and conducted an intense war, toy cap guns popping. It made me smile.
Standing up, I wandered into the hall, studying more framed photographs intermingled with framed prints of daisies and roses. Mom always loved spring flowers, telling me it reminded her of new life and happiness and possibilities.
To my left, I pushed the bathroom door open and glanced in. The smell of floral soap hit me. The pale pink bathtub, sink, and toilet hadn’t changed. Nor had the matching shag pile bath and toilet mats.
I moved on. My bedroom door stood open. I glanced in. There was nothing of me left except the bed, desk and dresser. But I could picture the disorganized mess I’d live with, posters, model airplanes on the dresser and a partially complete one on the plain oak wood desk. I could see clothes strewn on the floor, my bed unmade. Smiling, I remembered the stash of Playboys I’d thought well hidden from Mom under the mattress; the well thumbed magazines Jimmy had discovered in Mr. Larsen’s garbage can and shared with me. I remembered fondly the excitement I’d experienced seeing my first naked woman, their breasts and full pubic bushes, and how I’d discovered the joy of masturbating - the start of my adolescent journey.
It was several years later when Mom told me she’d found the Playboys and left them there, happy enough to know I was a normal teen. It was a telling sign of Mom’s attitude towards sex.
As I approached the master bedroom, memories intensified. The door was ajar. I pushed it open and her scent hit me; perfume - Chanel No. 5 - and facial powders.
The textured chenille bedcover was immaculate, light green and white with small pink roses, the hem touching the floor. Pale cream carpeting covered the floor. To one side was a small bench chair and table, oval mirror on top. Small jars of face cream jostled for space with perfume bottles, facial powders, lipstick and eyeliner and mascara, hair pins and rollers, brushes and combs. It had always been the most disorganized spot in the house. I knew the two drawers on either side held even more makeup. Mom had been careful about her appearance, even if it was only a trip to the grocery store. Back then, that’s how it was; smart skirts, nylons, blouses, high heels and hair coifed before any appearance in public.
A wide dresser on the left, below the window, was neat. More framed photographs were arranged on top. I stepped over to it and studied them: me at thirteen astride my bicycle, grinning with pleasure at Mom’s birthday gift to me, shorts and unlaced sneakers and red football jersey, my hair unruly; me at fifteen, a football under one arm, Jimmy making a face next to me; me at eighteen, dressed in a suit, carnation in the collar, with Betsy in a frilly blue prom dress, her arm through mine. Was I ever that young?
I saw photos of Jessica and me at our wedding, baby photos of my daughter, Lilly, and younger son, Carl, named after my father. Mom had added photos I’d sent to her of birthdays and Christmases - my life she was so proud of.
I missed her. I ached with loss. It felt so lonely to see this. But Mom had refused to move. She’d refused to impose on Jessica and me. She’d insisted I had a life to live and she was quite happy being alone, reminding me she had a large circle of friends to keep her busy. She was too self sufficient to consider a retirement condo. Too young, too, at sixty-seven.
I picked up one framed photo and sat on her bed. It was my favorite and I’d taken it. I’d taken it in fun. I was sixteen. We’d barbecued hamburgers, the summer weather warm enough for me to wear shorts and nothing else. The camera was new at the time, with a nifty time delay feature - a small spring-loaded dial.
It was one of the rare times Mom wore a bikini and I’d joked, asking her to pose. She had, one of those alluring poses, one hand on a cocked hip, knee bent in, and facing the camera slightly sideways, her arm around my waist. I was in tight swimming trunks, tall and lanky, grinning like a fool. Mom’s bikini was chaste by today’s standards, the bra top providing full coverage of her bust, the bottoms conservative. Small frills edged the yellow and white bikini. Back then, her bikini was considered racy by neighborhood standards, amusing Mom. Back then, I’d considered it sexy.
Mom must have been thirty-seven or -eight, in the prime of her life, her body full of sensual curves, waist narrow. She wasn’t plump or thin, just normal, a classic, well maintained female of the era. Through the eyes of time, I could appreciate how beautiful she was.
I missed her. I missed her as she was then and as she was later in life, a woman of strength, compassion, and endless love who steered me through my teens and into my adult life, despite myself. I was me because of her and no one else.
Sighing, I stood and replaced the photograph on the dresser. Then I opened the top right drawer.
Memories came rushing back, sharp and powerful. I knew what was in this drawer - my puberty, my sexual awareness, my formative adolescence, and sexual tastes that had stayed with me all my life.
In the drawer, I studied my mother’s intimates, her lingerie, and I knew them all. Brushing them with my fingers, I saw a powder blue pair of panties, full cut - what everyone now calls granny panties. I lifted the soft, thin cotton panties out, and remembered the first time I saw them.
Fourteen years old.
I’d yelled out, asking Mom where my favorite jeans were. Her muffled reply was unintelligible, so I went to her bedroom. The door was ajar. Mom was at her dresser, buttoning a cream blouse, and I stopped.
It was the first time I saw Mom as a female, like the girls in those Playboys. Standing in the hall, peeking in, wearing a T-shirt, socks and underwear, I studied her. She stood side on. The cotton panties weren’t the stretchy type of today. They were looser, full cut with thin elastic. They draped over her rear giving shape to her ass, lovely swells. She moved and I saw the front. An erection slowly formed as I admired how her lower stomach curved slightly and, making me hold my breath, I saw the shadow of her dark brown pubic bush, how it filled her crotch and shaped those cotton panties hinting at fullness, dense, erotic. Elastic leg bands disappeared at her crotch and her pussy pressed against the soft cotton where it tapered to between her thighs, the double gusset round, full.
When she turned away, opened a lower drawer and bent, powder blue cotton stretched on her pear-shaped ass and I saw cotton dip along her butt crack.
Mom transformed into a sensual female in that moment; real, with breasts and pubes. She became much more than a mother - an erotic fantasy.
Now hard, I retreated to my bedroom, closed the door, tugged my underwear down to release my erection, and masturbated, eyes closed and replaying the exciting sight of Mom in panties. I came fast, spurting cum onto the carpet, pleasure washing through me as I stroked myself. That first time, guilt hit me. Ashamed, I cleaned up and grabbed yesterday’s jeans.
Smiling at the memory of that first time, I put Mom’s powder blue panties back in the drawer. Later that morning, I hadn’t been able to look Mom in the eyes, too embarrassed. It didn’t last long. By the afternoon I found myself studying the shape of her in a pleated mid-calf skirt and blouse, wondering how big her breasts were while I studied them. It was the first time I wanted to peek up her skirt and see her panties, and I was horny again.
Another memory popped up and I smiled to myself. Brushing through her panty drawer, I found the white pair. They were full-cut again, but soft rayon tricot. Pulling them out, I rubbed them in my hand and felt a familiar stir of arousal.
Between that first sight of Mom and Playboy magazines, I’d been constantly horny, except when playing outdoors. Life back then was conducted outside, exploring, playing with friends, taking long, long bike rides, stopping at the ice cream shop for a pre-dinner treat, flirting with girls. Television was an evening affair, watched in moderation, Mom refusing to let me overdose on it.
It was one day when Mom was out shopping that I explored her bedroom, a previously ignored room of the house. It was the first time I discovered her panty drawer and the cornucopia of sensual underwear; her bras and girdles, her silk stockings and pantyhose, and interesting me, some rather risqué teddies. In Mom’s dresser I discovered a woman who was sexual, not my mother, but more.
And that formative day I found this pair of white rayon tricot panties in the wicker laundry basket, casually tossed in. Excitement mounted. Mom had worn these slinky panties! They’d pressed against her pussy!
Excited, now erect, I’d reached in and touched them, then pulled them out, held them up to admire them and, erection straining in my jeans, I’d inspected the inside gusset and saw a single, short, brown pubic hair. It had fueled my excitement.
Almost mindlessly, I’d brought the gusset to my nose and sniffed. Nothing. It didn’t matter. Those full-cut nylon tricot panties felt like pure silk in my hand, slippery and soft. I took them with me to my room, closed the door and, horny as hell, opened my jeans and shoved them down, pulled the front of my underwear down, my cock springing free. That first touch of silky panties on my cock sent waves of pleasure through me. My cock was touching an intimate part of Mom and it thrilled me. And then I stroked my erection, her panties wrapped around my erection, slipping and sliding sensually, slightly cool . . . my mother’s panties. A few wonderful strokes and I came explosively, semen spurting, pleasure hitting me with each aching spurt. When my orgasm passed, I saw with horror some of my milky semen had stained her panties.
Tugging my underwear and jeans up, I hurried to the bathroom and washed the stain off. In her bedroom, I shoved her damp panties to the bottom of the laundry basket, hoping they’d dry before laundry day.
The memory made me chuckle. It wasn’t until years later that Mom let me know she’d found them still damp and suspected why.
Rubbing those panties between my fingers, I felt that long ago excitement again; the first exploration of something forbidden and erotic. And I became partially erect. Forty-five years old and they still had an impact on me.
Returning them to the drawer, I closed it before temptation distracted me. I moved to her closet, opened it and studied her dresses, blouses and skirts. Even as she aged, Mom insisted on being well presented, her clothes carefully bought and meticulously cared for.
With a sigh, I closed the closet and left. It was time to buy packing boxes.
I started with mementos and framed photos, packing them carefully. The kids would one day appreciate their grandmother’s things. As night fell, I left to grab a bite to eat, then returned. Inside the living room side table I found Mom’s liqueur bottles. She preferred gin tonics in summer, a glass of sherry in colder weather. The bottle of Hiram Walker whiskey was almost full. I poured myself a glass and sipped it as I wandered around.
Her bedroom drew me back. I sat on her bed, turned the bedside lamp on, and let memories flow.
Discovering my mother’s panties had changed my sexual development. Like a drug, I’d returned to her laundry hamper to discover what pairs she’d worn. There was an illicit thrill at touching her panties. Every time I’d get aroused. The second time, I’d discovered panties that brought home my mother’s sexuality.
In the hamper, her bra was on top and I’d picked it up to study it. It was white with three metal hooks on the band. The cups had a metal wire underneath. But what caught my attention was the cups themselves. They were gossamer thin. In my mind, I pictured them on Mom and knew her breasts would be visible through the material. I wondered what Mom’s nipples were like. How big were her areolae? What color were they?
Now horny, I’d replace the bra and fished around in the hamper, finding and pulling out her matching panties. Gossamer thin and white, I held them. When I imagined Mom wearing them and pictured how her thick pubic bush would show through, my erection strained.
The sound of the front door opening made me panic. I shoved her panties in my jean pocket and ran out of her room. There, in my pocket, they were forgotten as dinner was made and we watched TV. It wasn’t until I went to bed that I rediscovered them. A moment of panic that I hadn’t returned them, that Mom would discover my panty theft, was shoved aside when I fondled them and became horny again. Touching them was like touching Mom, intimate, taboo.
I shoved them under my pillow, changed into pajamas, checked that Mom wasn’t around to see the tent of my erection, and rushed to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Back in my room, excitement mounting, I pulled a Playboy out from under the mattress and got in bed. I browsed the well used magazine until I came to the Playboy of the Month, a sexy brunette with full breasts and a thick pubic bush. Pushing the covers down, I fished my erection out of my pajamas and reached under the pillow, bringing Mom’s white, gossamer panties out. I inspected the cotton crotch and noticed a slight discoloration, brought the gusset to my nose and sniffed. Was there a slight hint of something?
Excited, aroused, and horny, I carefully positioned her panties over my cock, my tip touching the cotton gusset where Mom’s pussy had been, wrapping the panties around my shaft, I looked at Miss April, pretended it was Mom, and stroked my erection with her panties. It was a new sensation, more intense, seeing a naked woman while masturbating with panties. It felt wonderful. It was exciting. And it didn’t take long for my cock to strain and pulse. Stroking my cock, the panties shifted and the tip of my cock slipped up the cotton gusset to appear pressed against the gossamer material. I loved the sight of my cock in her panties. Precum leaked, dampening the gossamer material and I was too far gone to care. Stroking my cock with Mom’s panties excited me so damn much. When the pressure of an incipient climax arrived, I stared at my cock, ignored the Playboy, and groaned quietly as my orgasm arrived. My cock swelled, pleasure burst, and I came in her panties, thick semen spurting and oozing through the material. I pulsed and spurted again, hot cum surrounding my tip, a wet stain spreading. I was cumming in Mom’s panties and, God was it exciting! Stroking myself faster, I came hard, pleasure washing through me.
As my orgasm passed and cock waned, guilt had arrived. Seeing the mess I’d made of my mother’s panties brought on temporary panic. Folding them up, I’d shoved them under the mattress with the Playboy, determined to wash them out the next day and return them to her hamper.
Sipping whiskey, I smiled to myself at the memory. It was still so strong, I had a partial erection just from remembering the event. My fourteenth year had been one of exploration and discovery. Females became an obsession, all females, including Mom.
I’d made a point of trying to peek at Mom dressing. One occasion popped to mind. Standing, I opened her panty drawer and hunted through her intimates. There it was. I pulled out the pastel yellow panties and sat back on the bed, sipping whiskey and studying them. These were cotton hip-huggers, the sides narrow but not quite bikini style.
I laid them out on my knee and let my mind drift back to when I first saw them.
It was the tenth or twentieth time I’d tried to peek into Mom’s room to catch her dressing. This time I’d timed it perfectly. While I’d hoped to see Mom naked - I wanted to know what her breasts looked like - she was already wearing her bra and panties. Somewhat disappointed, I’d watched her from the hall. Mom’s breasts were full but not overly large (at least not as large as those of Playboy bunnies). She was wearing a pastel yellow bra, the cups of delicate lace. The bra gave shape to her breasts, full and suggestive. But it was her panties that caught my attention. Low cut, they revealed little at first.
But then, Mom turned to pick up pantyhose from the bed and I saw the top of her butt crack above the waist of her panties and my mind fired up, picturing Mom’s ass, enjoying its sensual pear shape, how those panties hugged the bottom of her buttocks, and I got an erection, excited by the illicit sight.
Mom turned back to the mirror and started collecting the pantyhose, rolling one leg up. She moved back and sat on the bed, her near leg rising, and that’s when I saw it. Pastel yellow panties stretched tightly to her pussy, shaping it, and at the waist, I caught sight of a few dark pubic hairs escaping. I rubbed my crotch, stared, and held my breath when her knee reached her chest, her hands holding the pantyhose at her toes. There, at her crotch, her vulva full and pouty, dark brown pubic hairs had escaped at the elastic leg.
I rubbed my erection inside my pants faster and watched Mom slip pantyhose up her leg. She pulled it up her other leg and, with the pantyhose at her thighs, she stood and almost wiggled into them, pulling them up to her waist. The pantyhose pressed tight to her, shaping her, and it seemed like her pussy pressed out, lush, ripe, a sensual mound.
Standing, peeking in, I’d rubbed my crotch, so turned on by the sight of honest-to-goodness real pubes, my mother’s pubes, and, seeing her in her pantyhose, small panties, and bra, I came in my pants, erection pulsing and spurting hot, wet cum. Pleasure coursed through me, my cock swelling, bliss hitting with each rapid spurt. Wetness spread in my underwear. I rubbed myself, cumming hard, heart racing, and as my climax passed, I backed away and returned to my room.
I’d made a real mess in my underwear, but my mind was on fire. It was the first time I hadn’t felt guilt.
Looking down at her panties on my lap, I smiled to myself and sipped whiskey again. That event had emboldened me. I now wanted to see Mom naked, planned on how to spy on her when she’d take a bath, and wondered what she’d look like. Playboy magazines were no longer as exciting. I had a real female in my house and I used her panties to find pleasure.
Standing, I returned the pastel yellow panties to the drawer and brushed my hands through the others, looking for one pair - another first for me. I found them at the bottom and pulled them out. Just holding them brought on tumescence.
They were full-cut, pure white, silk, with thin elastic at the waist and legs. Inside, the gusset was cotton-lined. I felt the stir of excitement just like I had three decades ago. These panties were the first in so many ways.
They were the first panties I actually stole from Mom’s panty drawer, excited and nervous. I’d stuffed them into my jean pocket, saving them for later. And throughout the day I’d get horny just thinking about them. I’d put my hand in my pocket and fondle them, their silkiness so exciting, and get an erection. It was Saturday. I was out with Jimmy and a couple of other friends, riding our bikes, exploring and having fun in the spring weather.
It was a new experience. I had a secret, erotic and exciting, and plans that made me ache with pent up need. The day couldn’t go fast enough. Dinner took too long. Television shows weren’t interesting. I had a pocketful of pleasure.
Mom noticed, commenting on how I fidgeted, my restlessness, asking if I was worried about anything. I was careful to hide my erection.
Finally, it was time for bed. I couldn’t brush my teeth fast enough. Waiting for Mom to go to bed was agonizing. And finally, the house was quiet. Heart thumping, I got out of bed, checked the hallway to make sure Mom’s door was closed, her light out, then closed my bedroom door.
I switched the side lamp on, bent, picked up my jeans from the floor, and slowly pulled those silky panties from the pocket. They shimmered in the light. My erection throbbed. Excitement mounted. Placing Mom’s panties on the bed, I stripped off my pajama bottoms and underwear. My cock stood out, high and proud. Excitement built, anticipation making my erection bob.
Holding Mom’s panties up, I admired their shape, full, the line of the cotton gusset showing. She’d worn these panties. Turned on beyond anything before, I bent and slipped one foot into a leg opening, then the other, my pulse racing. Slowly, very slowly, I drew Mom’s panties up. Soft silk caressed my legs. My cock strained as I pulled them up and over it. It was the first time wearing Mom’s panties and it thrilled me. Silk caressed my ass. Her cotton gusset felt soft against my balls, and my erection tented the front.
Almost shaking with excitement, I touched myself, pressing my cock up against my stomach, soft, cool silk against me. Then I caressed my erection. It was so damn good, so damn erotic. Mom’s panties felt like nothing else I’d experienced before.
I got back in bed, on my back, and rubbed my cock slowly, looking at myself, admiring how her panties shimmered on me, how sensual they felt, so completely different from underwear. My cock ached. Feeling lower, I pressed the crotch to my balls and rubbed, the cotton gusset soft, sensual. That’s where Mom’s pussy had been! My cock strained up. Too excited, lost in taboo act of wearing my mother’s panties, I rolled onto my front. The first hump was amazing, my erection sliding over silk, her panties caressing my ass. Cock straining, I lifted my hips and rubbed just the tip, sliding it over smooth silk, and I groaned silently, so turned on, so excited. Need to cum took over. Pressing against the bed, I humped Mom’s panties, cock sliding inside them, erection straining. Suddenly precum leaked and my tip slipped easily, damp, stimulating me. Lost in the erotic sensations, I humped the bed in her panties, pressure growing, my balls tightening and, with a grunt, ecstasy blossomed, my cock swelled, semen burned up and I came in her panties, spurting hot, slippery semen. Panting, I humped and came, spurting, cum wet and spreading. I humped and spurted, humped and spurted to an incredible climax, peaking and slowing, panting, heart racing, and eventually slowed to a stop.
For a few moments I luxuriated in the warm wetness, my erection fading, and the special peace that comes with release. It had been the most intense erotic experience of my life. When I finally got out of bed, I saw the wet stain on the sheet and the front of Mom’s panties darkened with semen.
Taking another sip of whiskey, I played with Mom’s silk panties in my hand and smiled at the memory. That event had solidified my fetish for panties and I still carried it today.
Tossing the last of the whiskey back, I stood and replaced Mom’s panties in her drawer, closed it, and headed to my childhood bed. I enjoyed my soft erection. It brought back such strong memories. I remembered the time fondly, now without shame.
For most of the next day I packed. Mom’s possessions were divided up into two collections; one for the items I wanted to keep and would have sent to storage, another for donation to charity. Every item brought memories, some sweet, some sad. Every item took me back to a simpler time; a time without the stress of providing, of freedom and play and new experiences, of friends and girlfriends and first kisses, first touches, movies, popcorn.
As evening arrived, I stopped and sat on the couch, turned the television on, and called my wife. We chatted. She brought me up to speed on the kids and her schedule, and showing how well she knew me, told me to take more time packing. There were no pressing issues at home needing me - except for her. She missed me, especially at night.
With the call over and the television picture appearing, only slightly distorted, I thought again how lucky I was. Jessica was a wonderful wife, mother, and partner. I adored her. After almost two decades together we still loved each other, still loved intimacy, and Jessica was a marvelous lover. She was soft and sensual, randy at times, and much more inventive than I. I’d never been tempted by any other woman. I didn’t have the strength, to start. And I couldn’t imagine any woman providing something I was lacking in our relationship, because there was nothing missing - intimacy or otherwise.
Standing, I wandered back to Mom’s room. I hadn’t touched it yet. It would be the last room to be packed. I was drawn back to her panty drawer and opened it.
Her pantyhose and stockings were neatly stacked on the side. Next to them were her garter belts; simple white ones, black ones, and underneath her body-shaping corsets, I saw her black lace garter. I pulled it out. It brought a sharp memory and with it, a return of warm arousal.
It was one of the rare nights Mom had gone out. The Meechers were having a cocktail party. Today, cocktail parties are almost nonexistent. Back then, women dressed up, men wore suits, and fancy cocktails were served while couples socialized just for the fun of it, trading stories, talking politics, complaining about golf handicaps, and planning charity events. Drinks were more than wine or beer. Martinis and gimlets and Rob Roys were served. Drinks had cherries or olives or pickled onions in them. Music played on turntables hidden inside polished wooden cabinets - furniture built for entertainment with transistor tube radios and clever slots for vinyl albums, Perry Como playing, or The Platters singing about smoke in your eyes.
Mom had dressed up. Her green and black strapless dress was tight at the waist, flaring at her hips, and falling to below her knees. Her bust was hinted at, with just the top swells teasingly exposed. Her makeup was carefully applied, lipstick just so, her hair carefully coiffed into waves and pinned up at the sides. She was beautiful, even to me.
She was tired and happy and slightly tipsy when she came in, easy with a laugh. We watched television while I munched pretzels from a wooden bowl on the coffee table.
Mom sat next to me, her knee crossed and foot bobbing in the air. She sighed as she eased her high heels off. Through the nylons I saw her red-painted toenails that matched her fingernail polish.
Paying attention to the television, I reached for more pretzels and knocked the bowl off the coffee table. Pretzels littered the floor in front of the couch. I apologized and, pushing the coffee table aside, dropped to my knees to pick the pretzels up.
Mom uncrossed her leg and raised her feet, bending one back onto the couch. At that moment, I glanced up and saw Mom’s black stocking, her knee, and higher up under her dress. The stockings ended high on her thighs and as I moved to gather pretzels, she lifted her other leg out of the way and I had an unobstructed view of her black panties and the black garter holding her stockings up. Mom’s pussy pressed against the lacy black panties and through them I could see her brown pubic bush, so sexy and erotic.
Before I could blink, her hand pressed her dress down and the view was gone, but it stayed sharp in my mind, and that night I masturbated, spurting cum onto my stomach as I imagined touching her panties and feeling the sponginess of her pubes inside. What would it feel like?
She knew what I’d seen. She told me much later. She knew what I was doing in my bedroom, too, although that was just a safe bet on her part. But it was her awareness of that event that changed, even intensified, my panty fetish.
Enjoying the memory, I replaced the black garter belt and brushed my hands through her panties again, looking for one pair in particular. There they were; soft pink, cotton, narrow elastic waist with a small white satin bow on the elastic, the material thin. I picked them up and as I did, an erection formed at the memory.
Fifteen years old.
On my bed, mid afternoon on a Saturday, with Mom out shopping for groceries, I’d borrowed a pair of her panties - rather risqué bikini style in the softest brushed cotton, blue with large white daisies printed on them - and was comfortably aroused, jeans and underwear pushed down to my thighs, with Mom’s panties wrapped around my shaft, stroking myself with the soft material.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured Mom wearing them. I imagined her pubes escaping from the top elastic and how they’d hug her pussy, my cock straining. So lost in the daydream, I hadn’t heard Mom return.
My bedroom door opened and Mom walked in, saying, “Ken, I could . . .” She stopped talking.
Mortified, I rolled over to hide my erection and her panties.
“When you’ve finished, come help me unpack,” she said quietly, and backed out, the door closing behind her.
Shame flooded me. My erection wilted. I hurriedly dressed and shoved Mom’s panties under my pillow. How, I wondered, would I ever be able to face her? Face hot with embarrassment, I took a deep breath and headed to the kitchen.
Mom, bless her heart, made no mention of the event. She chatted away about meals and food prices and asked me to unpack a full paper grocery bag. Through kindness and consideration, Mom managed to ease my guilt and embarrassment, and life resumed. But, like a guillotine, her awareness hovered over my head.
It was later that evening when the subject came up, just not how I’d envisioned it.
Watching the television together, with Mom also reading Sunset magazine, she lowered the magazine into her lap and said, “I’m sorry, Ken. I should have knocked first. I did call out several times, but you didn’t answer.”
Shifting uncomfortably, I said, “It’s okay, Mom,” and hoped the subject would be dropped. It wasn’t.
“It’s perfectly normal,” she commented.
I thought she was talking about masturbation until she added, “Just put them back in the laundry basket when you’re finished with them.”
My face flushed hot again. I was thankful when the subject wasn’t pursued further. But that event changed us. For the next week I avoided my mother’s panties and tried to forget about them. I couldn’t, the erotic draw just too strong and, less than two weeks later, I borrowed a used pair from the laundry basket and experienced a wonderful orgasm unlike I’d had for a while.
One late-afternoon after school, I entered the house and yelled for Mom. I wanted to head out with Jimmy for a while.
From down the hall Mom called, “In here.”
I approached her bedroom and, with her door ajar, I heard her moving around. I knocked. “Mom?”
When I pushed the door open, she said, “Sit on the bed.” She passed me with her head tilted putting in an earring.
Mom was wearing a simple white bra and panties. Simple or not, they looked great on her, emphasizing her bust and the sexy pear shape of her ass. I sat on the bed trying not to stare.
“What did you want?” she said, picking up a hairbrush.
“Are you going out tonight?”
She brushed her hair, patting it, curling the ends, and sprayed it. “The Thompsons are having a get together and invited me. I won’t be out late.”
Facing the mirror, Mom bent, and studied her hair. From behind, her buttocks shaped her panties, stretching them enough for a dip along her butt crack to form. She sat on the bench chair at her makeup desk and started applying eyeliner.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked.
“Just that I was heading out to meet Jimmy for a while.”
“Okay. Dinner will be in the oven.” She continued to apply makeup, then stood and walked over to the dresser. In that drawer, she took out black pantyhose and sat next to me on the bed. Casually, as if there was nothing strange about the situation, she put them on, one leg at a time, then stood and pulled the pantyhose up to her waist. The pantyhose pressed her panties to her body, outlining every sensual female curve and dip.
An erection formed. Before she noticed, I stood. “I’m off. Have fun,” I said and left the house.
Time with Jimmy distracted me, but when I returned home and ate dinner, my mind went back to Mom. She’d seemed so comfortable getting dressed in front of me. Nothing in her tone of voice or how she looked at me said it was anything more than what had happened. Oddly, I liked watching her. Seeing a woman dress was new. The way Mom put on pantyhose was erotic to me, and I wanted to see her do it again.
I did. Over the next couple of months I found myself waiting for her to go change and would find a reason to talk to her. It became normal for me to sit on her bed and watch her. I got to see so many of her panties and bras, some chaste, some very alluring, and every once in a blue moon, I’d see the shadow of her full pubic bush inside her panties. Once, I saw her dark areolae through a lacy bra. Those were all arousing sights that caused erections, and I became comfortable with it, not running away to hide. Mom’s panties became intertwined with my erotic pleasure.
But, one Saturday evening, everything changed. Everything.
Mom returned from a cocktail party. It was immediately apparent she was tipsy, laughing and smiling and chatting as she took off her coat and carefully hung it up. She talked about the party, telling me funny stories. I liked her in this mood. She was fun and happy.
She sat down on the couch rather hard and kicked off her high heels. She massaged her feet, regaling me with the inebriated antics of one uncoordinated guest trying to dance.
Leaning over, she picked up her high heels and said, “I’m going to change into something more comfortable,” and continued with her commentary on the party, now giving me observations of Mrs. Berg flirting despite her husband being there, “and he’s nothing to look at, either. I don’t blame her. I can’t imagine what it would be like to wake up to Fred Berg every morning!”
I followed her into her bedroom and sat on the bed. Mom chatted, comfortable with my presence, and started to undress. Watching a woman undress is even more erotic than watching them get dressed. Mom first removed her earrings, tilting her head this way and that, placing them in a small porcelain decorative dish. She reached behind her to unhook and unzip her skirt and, holding the waist, let it drop, then stepping out of it. That was when I saw her panties - soft pink, cotton, narrow elastic waist with a small white satin bow on the elastic, the material thin.
She peeled her flesh-colored pantyhose down, bending to remove her feet and her rear rounded out, the remarkable mound of her pussy emerging at the top of her thighs, and I got an erection.
Straightening, she tossed her pantyhose onto the dresser. My eyes were locked on the puffy front of her panties where her pubic bush was, the exciting delta that shaped soft pink cotton and my erection strained, confined uncomfortably in jeans.
“Ken? Ken!” Mom said. She smiled at me, unbuttoning her blouse. “Why don’t you change for bed and we’ll have popcorn and watch TV together?”
“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” I mumbled. In my bedroom, I changed into pajamas, keeping my underwear on, waited for my erection to wane, and headed to the living room.
The sound of popcorn popping made me change direction. In the kitchen, Mom was at the stove shaking a Jiffy Pop on the stove, the aluminum cover expanding as popcorn formed, the scrumptious scent of it filling the kitchen. She was wearing her white terry bathrobe.
With hot popcorn and a soda for me, a glass of white wine for Mom, we settled on the couch and watched Bewitched. It was while watching The Dick Van Dyke Show that Mom crossed one knee over the other and the bathrobe slipped open exposing her bare leg. I naturally followed it up and almost choked at the way her soft pink cotton panties peeked out of the gap in her bathrobe, her thighs hiding her crotch.
This was even more erotic. This was an illicit peek, more exciting. And I tried to be subtle as I stared. Unfortunately, an erection formed and underwear and pajamas weren’t enough to hide it. I held the bottle of Coke in my lap, wishing I’d had the foresight to grab a pair of Mom’s panties while she was out.
Mom uncrossed and re-crossed her knees the other way and, for a brief moment, I saw her crotch and how her pussy seemed to bulge against soft pink cotton. The shape was indescribably erotic. My cock strained. For the rest of The Dick Van Dyke show I kept the Coke bottle pressed to my lap.
When the show ended, I stood. “I think I’ll go to bed, Mom,” I told her, planning on hurrying away. But Mom stood, too.
She noticed. It was hard to miss. For just a moment there was silence. Then my mother smiled softly. “It’s okay, Ken. It’s perfectly natural and nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I opened my mouth to disagree and she continued.
“Seeing a woman in panties and getting aroused is normal. It’s why women wear lingerie and not tidy-whities.” She glanced at the tent in my pajamas, then at me. “It’s rather flattering.”
Mom moved closer and shocked me.
“You like my panties.” Her hand brushed against my cock. “I’ll tell you a secret. Women get turned on by arousing men.”
I held my breath. Then Mom gently brushed my erection again before closing her fingers around it, gently squeezing it.
“You’re big,” she said softly. “Your father was, too.” She untied the belt of her robe and it fell open, exposing her soft pink bra and cotton panties, her bare stomach. My cock pulsed in her hand.
“Come,” she ordered quietly.
I followed her, expecting to go to her bedroom. But no. She led me into my bedroom and turned to face me, taking my erection in her hand again, squeezing it gently. My cock strained. A pulse of pleasure hit me, and horniness took over, suppressing embarrassment.
“Can I see?” she asked.
I couldn’t find my voice, so I nodded, my pulse racing.
Mom’s fingers eased into the waist of my pajamas. She pulled my pajamas and underwear out and down, releasing my erection. It sprang up, strong, pointing up. I watched Mom’s hand as she gently took me in her hand, her fingers wrapping around my shaft.
“You have a beautiful erection, Ken,” she said softly.
Then she stroked me! I groaned quietly, cock swelling. No one had touched me, let alone my mother. Hers was the first, and, God, did it feel good! Solidly under the control of horniness, I watched Mom stroke me, her touch light, almost delicate, and pleasure surged through me, my erection jerking. A bead of precum emerged and Mom rubbed it with the pad of her thumb. She edged closer to me.
“Are you close?” she asked.
I could only nod, my heart racing, heat blossoming, cock straining. Nothing in my life had been so exciting.
Then Mom took me over the top. In almost a whisper, she said, “You like panties.” The fingers of her free hand pinched the elastic waist of her soft pink panties. “You like to cum in my panties,” she whispered, pulling the waist away from her stomach. “Would you like to cum in my panties while I’m wearing them?”
She pulled the waist out and down, and I saw her thick, soft pubic bush in all its glory for the first time. I saw how her gusset cradled her vulva inside, the delta shape of her so sexy. So excited at the erotic sight, at actually seeing my mother’s pussy, the first one I’d ever seen, I couldn’t stop my reaction. I came, cock swelling. Semen surged up my shaft as Mom stroked me. The crown swelled, and cum exploded, a long spurt shooting and landing on Mom’s pubes, thick and white. Ecstasy made me gasp and I spurted again, another rope of cum spurting onto her bush. Semen dripped down her bush slowly and I spurted again, gasping, gut clenching. Mom stroked my pulsing cock, almost milking me, each strong spurt shooting more semen onto her pubes. My knees weakened, legs trembled. I was panting, my erection spurting, pleasure wracking my body as Mom stroked me. My orgasm peaked and passed, pulses weakening, cum oozing out in weak spurts.
Mom let the waist of her panties go and semen made a dark stain on the front all the way down to her gusset. She released my softening penis, leaned in and kissed my cheek, whispering, “Sleep well,” before wrapping her robe around her and leaving.
I stood in the middle of the bedroom stunned. Too many firsts swamped my mind and the top of them was seeing my mother’s light brown pussy dripping white cum. It took a long time to fall asleep that night.
The memory of that event, thirty years ago, still brought on an erection. I looked at those soft pink cotton panties in my hand, an erection tight in my pants. It still had a powerful effect on me.
I think Mom had been tipsy that night. But it was more than that. I suspected she’d been flirted with by some man at the cocktail party and was feeling aroused and missed Dad; a man in her life. Back then I wondered if Mom went to bed that night and masturbated with my semen on her pussy. I used to picture her on her bed, her hand inside her wet panties, playing with herself, spreading my warm cum and bringing herself off, climaxing from her son’s semen. Back then, I’d hoped that’s what she’d done. Mom deserved to find pleasure. She was beautiful, still young, and should have found someone to share her life with.
She never did.
Back then, at fifteen years old, after that event, I wanted to repeat it as frequently as possible. Had I, socializing with girls might have stopped. Maybe Mom knew it. Maybe she recognized the implications of a deepening, intimate sexual relationship with her son.
Life returned to normal. Mom didn’t mention the event. She seemed herself the next day. But every so often, I’d find a pair of her panties left on my bed; a gift, her act showing her acceptance of my fetish.
Fondling those soft pink panties, I sat on her bed, then laid back. Her scent was strong on the bed. She’d never worn anything but Chanel No. 5.
I let those memories wash through me, my mother so beautiful and sensual in her own way. Undoing my pants, I fished my erection out and wrapped her panties around my shaft, soft cotton feeling so good. I let myself remember the last time she’d touched me. I was sixteen when she entered my bedroom, a basket laundered clothes in her arms. It was only the second time in my life she’d caught me masturbating.
She’d immediately apologized and made to back out. I told her it was alright. She knew I masturbated. I wasn’t as embarrassed as I used to be. However, as I made to cover up, Mom dropped the basket of folded clothes at the foot of the bed and sat at my side, stopping me. she fished through the basket and brought out those same soft pink cotton panties, smiled, and wrapped them around my erection, her hand closing on my shaft.
“Let me,” she said softly, stroking me.
Now lying on her bed with my pants pushed down, I stroked my erection with those panties, remembering Mom’s gentle touch, how she stroked me slowly, her panties so soft. I remembered seeing her nipples become more prominent, despite her bra and blouse.
I stroked my cock slowly, inhaling her scent from the bed and remembered how exciting it was to know Mom was aroused by touching me, and how I wished I could touch her, if only once, and bring her pleasure like she did for me.
Stroking my erection, I pictured Mom’s smile when I came that day, spurting semen onto my stomach.
The thrill today was as strong as it was long ago and I came, spurting into Mom’s panties, pleasure pulsing, cock straining. I came fully, remembering her touch, her caress.
Sighing, relaxed, I undressed and did something I’d often dreamed about back then. I slept in Mom’s bed.
When morning light woke me, I lay quietly and studied her bedroom. Very little had changed. The curtains were different and family photos had been added, all in silver frames.
I’d had one very sexy episode here. Just one. The thought of it brought on arousal, excitement, my pulse rising.
Seventeen years old.
Mom arrived home late on Friday. I’d had Jimmy and a couple of friends over to listen to music and we’d sneaked a few beers. I was pleasantly tipsy. So was Mom. I knew from the moment she fumbled putting her key in the front door. She’d been at another cocktail party.
They were fairly regular, hosted at different friend’s homes, everyone well presented. I thought of them as the ’Aspic Events’. Meals were fancy, which meant everything was put in aspic and served cold. The worst was tomato juice aspic with green peas and hard boiled eggs. I’d seen Mom make it for the parties she’d hosted, tried it and just about vomited. Mom had insisted everyone made aspic for these events. It was fancy food.
Mom was happy, slightly tipsy, and light on her feet. She draped her coat over the back of an armchair and told me she’d danced. Twirling, she laughed, her skirt swinging out.
“What did you do?” she asked.
I told her about my friends and listening to music, and skipped the part about the beer.
Mom smiled. “Put music on. Dance with me,” she insisted.
Knowing her taste, I put on The Drifters, and, as Save The Last Dance For Me filled the living room, Mom grabbed my hand and pulled me to her. It hit me how I’d grown. Mom was always taller than me, even when she wasn’t. But when her cheek settled on my shoulder and we danced to the slow song, I realized, without her high heels, I now was much taller.
We moved slowly, music washing over us, and I enjoyed dancing with her. She still had a slender waist. She smelled of Chanel No 5 and a hint of cigarette smoke. She moved gracefully; a wonderful dancer. And when the song ended, she asked me to play it again.
I did. We danced. Mom’s hand rubbed my back and my hand slipped down to her lower back, just where her rear started. When the song ended, Mom tightened her arm around me and sighed. She smiled at me, her blue eyes twinkling.
“You’re a good dancer, Kenny. You’re going to make some girl very happy.” Then she added, “I have to take my makeup off. Keep me company.”
I followed her to her bedroom. Her nylons whispered as she walked, her rear moving, skirt swinging. Mom sat on her bench at her makeup table. I parked myself on her bed.
Mom chatted away giving me more stories from the cocktail party while she wiped makeup off with cotton pads. She leaned into the mirror and studied her face, then applied cream, still chatting.
Eventually, she stood and casually unhooked her skirt, unzipped it, and slipped it down, stepping out of it, and I reacted, blood flowing. Mom was wearing a black, lacy garter belt and stockings. In her high heels, her legs were long and shapely. She wore matching black panties, low cut, lace on the sides, the rest some silken, shimmery material.
Still chatting away, she unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off, and my erection strengthened. Mom wore a matching lacy bra that exposed the top of her breasts. And through the lace, I could see her areolae and nipples clearly; dark pink, her nipples prominent.
I was staring, maybe ogling. In high heels, stockings, garter, and rather skimpy panties and bra, Mom was a sexy, sensual, beautiful woman in the prime of her life. To me, she could have stepped out of a Playboy magazine. She was slender, yet the curves! Long legs, toned thighs, the sensual swell of her ass, a tapering waist, and breasts that suited her body perfectly, not too large, not too small.
She must have noticed me. She stopped talking and studied me with a small smile, her eyes soft.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Girls like to be appreciated.”
“Mom, you’re . . .” I couldn’t finish. How do you tell your mother she’s the sexiest woman you’d seen?
Still smiling gently, Mom reached for my hand and pulled me up. “Just this once,” she murmured.
Mom moved my hand up to her breast. “Just this once you can touch me. I know how you’ve wanted to.”
She pressed my palm to her breast. My erection strained inside my jeans. Mom’s breast, more than a handful, was warm and surprisingly heavy. I caressed her over her bra, marveling at how resilient yet soft it was and, somewhat distracted, I rubbed the bump of her nipple.
Mom, still holding my wrist, let me fondle her. It was my first touch of a breast and so exciting. My cock pulsed slowly. I was so aroused, so turned on. Then she guided my hand down across the gentle feminine swell of her stomach, her skin warm and silken. My heart raced. I watched my hand as if it was a separate part of me.
“You can touch my panties,” she whispered, and I did.
The groan was loud in my head when I actually cupped Mom’s pussy. Against my hand I felt the springiness of her pubic bush. I felt the shape of her pussy, broad at the top, swelling out, and tapering sensually, her vulva full, rounded. And I felt the warmth of her through her panties, exciting me. My first touch of a pussy.
With great care, I hesitantly tried to feel her shape, unsure of how, inexperienced.
Mom said in the softest voice, “I won’t break,” and pressed my hand to her crotch.
I explored, discovering the fullness of her labia, how prominent she was between her thighs. I explored the steep sides down to the elastic legs of her panties and marveled at fullness of her mons, lush and so arousing. Under my hand, Mom’s mons was soft, sensual, yielding to slight pressure. The feel of her pubes excited me beyond belief, and my erection strained, pulsed, dampness emerging at the tip.
Mom released my wrist. It was a shock when she caressed the bulge of my erection.
Her voice changed. It became almost husky. “You feel so hard. Let me help.”
Mom opened the button on my jeans, lowered the zipper, and slowly pushed my jeans and underwear down. My erection popped up when released, straining, thick, aching. She wrapped her hand around the shaft, squeezed gently, and stroked me once. The pad of her thumb spread precum, teasing me, exciting me.
She stroked me slowly and whispered, “Would you like to cum in my panties?”
I groaned, cock throbbing, so hard.
With her free hand, she took my wrist and pulled it away from her pussy, bringing it up to her breast, pressing my palm against the sexy mound. I fondled her gently, squeezing, rubbing, lost in arousal.
Releasing my wrist, still slowly stroking my erection, the head swollen and inflamed, she pulled the waist of her panties out and down, exposing her incredible pubic bush, light brown, silken, full.
Holding her panties down, she edged closer, stroking my erection, and the tip brushed against her, her pubes tickling my tip. She rubbed the tip up and down, precum leaking.
“Mom,” I whispered, pulse racing, cock throbbing.
She stroked me. “Cum in my panties, honey. Let me feel your cum.”
It was too much for me. I was too turned on. Groaning loudly, my cock swelled, ached, and a pulse of pleasure hit me, semen surging up my shaft to explode, a huge spurt splashing against her pubes, thick, white.
“Yes, cum,” she whispered, stroking me.
I gasped and another even harder wave of bliss slammed into me, semen exploding to hit her above her pubes, slipping down to collect in her bush. My orgasm erupted, strong, demanding, taking control, and, as Mom stroked my shaft, she aimed me down and another powerful explosion hit, a long pulse of semen hitting the gusset of her panties, pooling thickly. I tipped over into the storm of my climax. Mom stroked my pulsing cock, each stroke milking a hard spurt, cum shooting onto her pubes. I came hard, endlessly, her brown bush speckled with white semen. Pleasure wracked my body, my gut clenching, and an ache developed with each desperate spurt until my orgasm peaked and passed, spurts weakening, slowing, the last of them dribbling down my shaft onto Mom’s hand.
My knees were weak, my breath panting. I wobbled a bit.
Mom brought her panties back up, her pubes hidden. She gently pressed the front of her panties against her pussy and said, “I think it’s time for bed,” stepping back.
She smiled, full of love, kissed my cheek and whispered, “Sweet dreams, Kenny.”
That memory was so strong even today. Lying in her bed, I came, stroking myself, semen shooting onto my stomach, pleasure suffusing me, and as my orgasm passed, as pulses weakened and stopped, sadness washed over me.
I wish I’d talked to her and told her how much I loved her, how her easy acceptance of my puberty made me a better person. I wished I could tell her how her attitude had made me a more sensitive lover.
Mom had never touched me again. Just those two times. But she’d occasionally left me a gift - a pair of her panties on my bed. We didn’t talk about it. In every way my relationship with her was the same, her gifts a subtle message that I wasn’t odd, deviant, just a normal adolescent boy.
I’d told her I loved her many, many times. But those events were never talked about. They weren't hidden in shame, either, just part of my journey through puberty.
I thought Mom had an occasional male friend, once I left for university, but it was never confirmed. She never answered me when I asked. I hope she did. I hope she had someone to love her as she deserved to be loved.
It felt good to be home. Jessica greeted me as I walked in.
“Welcome home,” she said with a pleased smile. She looked great in light blue Capri pants, flat shoes, and cream blouse open at the neck, collar turned up. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back, held in a band at the back of her neck.
Her head nestled under my chin when she hugged me. She rose onto her toes and kissed me, her soft brown eyes sparkling.
“So, tell me everything,” she said, taking my overnight case.
Jessica followed me up to the bedroom. I dropped the box I was carrying on the bed and kicked my shoes off.
“It’s done. The house is on the market. Furniture has gone to a consignment outfit. Mom’s clothes have been donated to charity, and the things I want to keep are on their way to storage.”
I took off my shirt, planning on taking a shower to wash the trip off me. Jessica sat on the bed and asked, “What’s in the box?”
I sat on the bed next to her, reached out, and stopped her from opening it. “I have a story to tell you before you open it.”
I was reminded how comfortable and adventurous my wife was with intimacy as I related my adolescent experiences. She smiled, amusement dancing in her warm brown eyes.
At one point, she laughed lightly and said, “Like father, like son. I found a pair of my panties in Carl’s room.” Then, when I finished my story, she asked, “Did you ever want to have sex with your mother?”
I stopped and cast my mind back. Had I?
“It’s hard to answer you truthfully,” I said. “Probably not. Did I want to have sex? Sure. I was a virgin and sex was a preoccupation. If she’d ever done more or wanted more, I would have. Mom was a beautiful woman and I lusted after her body. But I don’t remember wanting to have sex with her.”
My wife smiled at me. “At least I know why my panties turn you on so much. So, what’s in the box?”
“Go ahead and open it.”
Jessica did. She pulled out silver framed photographs, inspecting each, pausing at the one of Mom in a bikini.
“You’re right. I’ve never seen this one. She was a real beauty,” Jessica said, setting it aside. Then she continued removing mementos and, as the box emptied, she pulled out a small package. Opening it, she studied the five panties it contained.
She held up a pair of full-cut, pure white, silk panties, with thin elastic at the waist and legs. “Were these the ones you wore?” she asked.
“Did you wear many of your mother’s panties? Back then?”
“No. That was the only pair. Twice. I wore them twice when I was fourteen.”
Bending, I removed my socks, preparing to shower. Jessica replaced the box, keeping the photo of Mom in a bikini out.
“This one should go on your bedside table.”
Unbuttoning my shirt, Jessica studied me. When I looked at her she smiled and said, “It turns me on. I can picture you as a teen and playing with yourself, using your Mom’s panties.”
She moved to my side and put her hand on my arm, rubbing gently. Staring into my eyes, she continued, “It really turned me on, Ken.” In a quieter voice, she said, “Lilly and Carl are out for the day. You’ve been gone for four days. I missed you.”
My wife had never been shy of her sexuality. It’s what made our marriage so strong. She was as inventive as me, if not more so. In her soft brown eyes I could see a familiar sparkle of heated arousal, the kind that made my blood rush.
She slipped her hand to my crotch and fondled me, asking, “Are you too tired from the trip?”
“Not anymore,” I assured her as she fondled me into a full erection.
Standing suddenly, she went to her dresser, opened a drawer and fished around, pulling out a pair of white silk panties, full-cut, thin elastic; a pair I’d encouraged her to by years ago.
“I’d wondered why you’d wanted me to buy these,” she said, bringing them over and sitting next to me. “Now I know.” She looked into my eyes and smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Will you wear them for me?”
Putting them in my hand, I felt the silky material. She added, “And I’ll wear sexy panties, too. I’d like to see you wearing them with an erection, just like you did as a teen. It excites me, Ken.”
Lord help me! Jessica was a constant source of surprises.
She stood up, moved back to the dresser, smiling. Pulling out different panties, she showed me each. “This one? Or this one?” she asked. Then she smiled broadly. “This one. I’ll wear these for you.” She pulled out a pair of white, gossamer thin panties. “You’ll be able to see my pubic hair with these, just like you did with your Mom.”
Searching, she found the matching bra. “Perfect. I’ll change in the bathroom.” She smiled at me, her eyes twinkling. “You change here.”
With that, she disappeared into the en suite. I stood and removed my shirt, studying the panties she’d given me. I felt the same stir of excitement that comes with an erotic fetish. Removing my pants and underwear, my cock stood out, high and proud. When I picked up the silky panties, a small thrill hit me - my wife’s panties. Silk caressed my foot when I put it in, then the other, and once again I felt the sensual caress of silk as I pulled the full-cut panties up, my cock straining. Silk caressed my ass. Silk caressed my cock. I pressed Jessica’s panties to my cock and I was fourteen years old again, horny and excited.
The bathroom door opened. Jessica emerged and I inhaled sharply. She’d hidden what she’d selected. My wife emerged in a white gossamer bra that showed her beautiful breasts, her dark pink areolae and large nipples. Making me catch my breath, Jessica wore a lacy white garter and white stockings making her legs look so long. And her matching gauzy panties let me see the full glory of her dark pubic bush, trimmed but full.
My cock bobbed inside the panties, tenting the silk. Jessica smiled and moved to me. Her body touched the tip of my erection. She fondled my erection sending chills of excitement through me.
“I’m so horny,” she murmured. “I can’t believe how sexy it is to see you in my panties. I never knew it would be such a turn on. Do they feel good? Like when you were a teen?”
“Yeah. Can’t you tell?” I asked, fondling my wife’s beautiful breast, feeling its mature weight and lightly pinching her nipple through the gossamer bra.
Jessica teased the tip of my cock, rubbing it with her palm, and a pulse of pleasure hit me, my erection jerking. She pushed me backwards. My knees touched the edge of the bed and I fell onto my back.
Smiling, she bent over and rubbed my cock through the silky panties, at the same time touching her pussy.
“You’re so hard, Ken,” she murmured. “So big.” Looking at me, she moved onto the bed, straddling my thighs, my feet hanging off the edge. Still caressing my cock, she said, “I’m so turned on right now. Feel.”
Taking my hand, she brought it to her panties and I felt her shape, full and lush, so sexy. I loved the sight of her pubes through her panties, dark brown and erotic. Deep in her crotch, when I rubbed her, I felt a hint of dampness. Jessica was leaking!
I rubbed her cleft, found her clit, and rubbed it gently. Jessica inhaled deeply, smiled, and eased her hand inside the leg elastic of my panties, reaching up to hold my shaft. Silk moved as she stroked me. I pulsed. A damp spot formed on the white silk.
Removing her hand, she moved up, straddling me, and slowly settled her pussy on my shaft. When she started humping my cock, I groaned quietly and reached for her bra, pulling the cups down, then caressing her still-firm breasts.
Her eyes narrowed with heat. Reaching into the waist of my panties, she placed her hand along my erection and pressed it up against her pussy, humping me slowly.
“What does it feel like to cum in silky women’s panties?” she asked. “What was it like to spurt into your mother’s panties? Was it exciting? Did it feel illicit and taboo?”
I groaned, cock flexing, and started humping gently.
She rubbed her pussy on me, her hand pressing, looked down and said, “Look at the wet spot, Ken. You’re leaking so much. Would you like to cum in these panties? Or would you like to spurt cum all over my pubes and watch me wear my wet panties all day, knowing your cum is soaking them?”
“Fuck, Jessie!” I groaned.
“Or would you like to fuck me, cum in me, and make me wear these silky white panties, knowing I’d be leaking your semen in them?” She smiled slyly. “I’ll wear a skirt so you can feel me anytime you want, reach up my skirt to touch my wet panties. Would you like that?
I groaned, humping slowly, my tip rubbing up and down the silky white panties. Jessica removed her hand from inside and leaned over me.
“Imagine me in cum-soaked panties, Ken. Imagine us at dinner, Carl and Lilly at the table not knowing. Just the thought makes me so horny. Do you think they’d be able to smell your cum?”
She bent over me and kissed me, then whispered, “What do you think Carl would do if he knew his mother was wearing cum-soaked panties? Would he get excited? Would he get an erection? Would he go to his room and masturbate?
“And what would your daughter do if she knew? What would she feel knowing her father’s semen was wet in her mother’s panties? That her mother was leaking cum at the dinner table? Do you think she’d play with herself under the table? Would our thirteen-year-old get horny? She’s discovered masturbation, Ken. I’ve seen the signs in her panties.”
She kissed me again, humping my shaft slowly. “I’m so horny. Fuck me, honey. Please fuck me.”
Groaning, I rolled my wife off and onto her back. She smiled, her knees rising, and reached for the crotch of her panties, pulling it aside to expose her sexy pussy, her dark brown pubes, her gorgeous cleft. I tugged the front of the silk panties down releasing my erection, settled over her and guided my cock to her cleft. With one shove, I penetrated her.
Jessica moaned. Pulling back slightly, I thrust again, arousal driving me, and buried myself inside her, her pussy snug and warm and slippery.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Fuck me, Ken. I’ve missed this.”
She held my hips and curled her pussy up at me, rubbing her clit against me. Wearing her silky panties, with her wearing her sexy black panties, we fucked each other, urgent, fast, hard thrusts. My wife groaned and fucked back at me, faster, urging me on with her hands. I fucked her hard and fast, too turned on by her arousing words. And far too soon I felt my orgasm stir, cock swelling, balls tightening.
“Stop. Wait,” Jessica said suddenly, pushing me. “Take your panties off. I want to wear them.”
I pulled them off, my cock waving, glistening. My wife tugged her panties off, took the silky white panties I handed her, and pulled them on. The waist went all the way up to her navel, the material loose. Smiling, she pulled the gusset aside as I moved back over her. I had a vision of my mother wearing panties just like them and groaned as I found my wife’s entrance and thrust, burying myself in her.
Jessica gasped. “Now. Cum quickly, honey. I’m so close.”
I started fucking her again, my groin slapping against her. Jessica grabbed my hips and urged me on, murmuring and groaning, staring at me. I thrust into her snug, slippery pussy, my cock swelling, an ache building, and as my climax arrived, I kissed her, thrusting into her. My cock swelled. Semen burned up, and exquisite bliss hit as I spurted hard, hard, a beautiful release. Withdrawing, I thrust into my wife hard and the kiss broke with Jessica gasping, her pussy suddenly milking my cock and i exploded, sweet bliss, cum erupting. The fury of my orgasm took over and I fucked and exploded, fucked and spurted, cumming hard, completely, cock swelling and pulsing until I slipped over the top and slowed, sweating, drained and satiated.
When my penis softened, I pulled out of her and rolled to the side, my pulse still thumping.
Jessica smiled. “God that felt good! I needed that.” A twinkle danced in her soft brown eyes. She reached down, pulled the gusset of the white, full-cut silk panties over her pussy, and said, “I wasn't kidding. I’m going to wear these panties all day and let your cum leak into them. And I’m going to wear a short skirt so I can flash you when the kids are around. By tonight, I’m willing to bet you’ll be desperate.”
Mentally I groaned. “What did I do to deserve you?” I asked.
“You’re a lucky man, Ken,” she observed with a laugh. “I think you should thank your mother’s panties.”