Mother's Good Deed

Very gently she patted the sofa next to her and whispered, "Come and sit by me dear."

I think I was shaking with anticipation, but I did as she requested. I sat down, and making an extreme effort to control myself, I smiled warmly and innocently back at her.

"What's up Mum?" I asked as cheerfully as I could.

For a moment she seemed lost for words, as if she didn't know where to start. I don't think my apparently innocent cheerfulness helped her much.

"I ... you ..." she began falteringly.

I smiled up at her again, with the kind of sweet innocent smile that is the sole property of a scheming mind.

"Yes ...?" I prompted.

"You remember what we talked about last night?" She half-whispered half-croaked, her mouth suddenly very dry.

Taking my cue I looked down guiltily

"Er ... yes", I responded.

"I ... I want to try and ... help you."

Silence on my part seemed like the most appropriate response.

"I'm afraid ... I know you may not like ..." she paused, searching for the right words. "You may not appreciate any of this to begin with."

Somewhere deep inside me somebody grinned softly, and at the same time I felt the blood rushing down to my loins.

"... but I think, indeed I am sure, that it's necessary for you."

"What Mum?" I asked innocently. "What's 'necessary' for me?"

"Oh Dear," she sighed deeply. I ... I ..." She stopped, clearly at a loss for what to say or how to continue.

For a moment I thought she was going to give up on whatever she was planning, and as I was fairly sure I didn't want her to do that, at least not before anything had happened, I said (in as sad a voice as I could manage), "is it something to do with me not liking girls?"

"Yes dear," she whispered, seemingly relived to have found a way forward. "It's ... it's going to be difficult for you in the future ... not liking girls. You'll miss out on so much ... on a home and a family. It's just not right."

"I can't help it mum," I muttered mournfully and dishonestly.

"I know dear ... but maybe you could like girls ... with a little help."

"Help?" I said, trying very hard to keep any of the excitement I was feeling out of my voice. "What sort of help?"

Mother was silent for a moment, and then she took a deep breath. "Girls can be nice ... can be fun. If you know what I mean?"

"Fun?" I murmured, clearly demonstrating I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Yes fun ... exciting." She paused realising she needed to be just a little more explicit, but still very reluctant to take the plunge.

"Girls aren't very exciting!" I replied miserably. "Not the ones I know anyway!"

"Oh dear..." she whispered to herself. And then taking another deep breath she made the leap.

"Girls can be sexy you know ... very ... very sexy. Don't you think?"

"Not the girls I know," I repeated obstinately.

"But you've not had the opportunity to know what it's like to be with a sexy girl, have you? A sexy girl ... a sexy woman can be so unbelievably ... er ... exciting!"

She seemed to be stuck going round in circles, unable to break out to another level, but I wasn't going to help her. It had to come from her.

"None of the girls I know are very exciting," I repeated again.

"Well, maybe if you could be with a woman ... maybe that would be different." I could hear the breathless tension in her voice as she said this, but again I pretended not to understand.

"But I don't know any women, Mum, certainly not any exciting ones!"

"I'm a woman," she whispered hoarsely. "Aren't I?"

I instinctively turned to look up at her. She was breathing very deeply and her breasts were heaving in and out just inches from my face. Quickly I looked down.

"But .... You're my mother," I said simply.

"I can be exciting," she breathed. "Sexy even. "

"But .... You're my mother," I repeated.

"I know," she whispered. "But I'm also a woman. Maybe I can help you to like women better."

"But I already like you mum," I said, in a stunning mastery of apparent misunderstanding.

"I mean dear," she said with infinite patience. "Maybe I can help you to like what a woman can do for you ... you know those ..." and here her voice became hushed. "... Those sexy things a woman can do for you."

It's strange you know but even though I had known clearly where we she was going with this, and even though I'd encouraged it through my small subterfuge of ignorance, I was still genuinely shocked when she said it out loud like that. This time the silence that followed was not an act, I really didn't know what to say.

"Will you let me try," she said gently.

I think she misunderstood my simple shocked silence for a reluctance to do anything with a woman, even (or maybe especially) my own mother.

"Please darling let me just try. If you don't like it then we'll stop. OK?"

What could I say? Even if every fibre of my being hadn't been straining to shout 'OK' at the top of my voice, those two simple letters would still have tumbled from me anyway. After all I was the 'passive' one, remember?

"Ok," I said very quietly.

V

As she sidled up beside me on the sofa she turned to face me, and her body seemed to open itself up, as if all taboos and barriers were being removed. She smiled, but her breathlessness seemed to be increasing. I didn't understand at the time, but even though all this was in one sense a sacrifice for her, some part of her was undoubtedly excited at the prospect.

"Where shall we start?" she said, almost gaily.

I looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment.

"Oh dear, my poor baby," she whispered and patted my knee. "Give mummy a cuddle."

She pulled me to her, not holding herself back like normal, but crushing me into her bosom and kissing softly at my neck. Her scent was overpowering, and for a moment the smell of her perfume, combined with the excitement of what she'd been saying up to that point, nearly made me cum in my trousers. Thankfully, after a moment, she pulled back and sat upright in front of me.

"Give me your hands," she said gently.

I placed my hands in hers, struggling mentally to calm my physical excitement.

"Have you ever touched a woman's breast?" she said breathlessly.

"No," I lied.

She lifted up my left hand and laid it across her breast. As it lay there I could feel the voluptuous shape of her bosom beneath my hand.

"You can feel it if you like," she said, and for a moment my head echoed with Simon's voice.

Very softly and gingerly I shaped my hand around the outline of her breast. By now I was as breathless as her.

"Does that feel good?"

I mumbled an intended innocent and non-committal, "yes ... ok." But my breathless and half-strangled voice told a different story.

She leaned forward and whispered into my ear, "Undo my blouse!"

Mt cock jerked in my trousers like a rifle re-loading. I lifted my hand from her breast and moved it to the buttons. Shakily I undid the first two.

"Keep going," she said soothingly.

I undid the next three until her blouse was hanging open. Then she lifted up both my hands and slid them inside her blouse, bringing them gently to rest cupped under her bra. As I sat there, my hands inside my own mother's blouse, holding her wondrous breasts, my heart pounded and my head spun in tremulous excitement. I simply could not believe what I was being allowed to do, holding her bosom in my hands, and sensing and feeling the material of her brassiere.

For a long moment I just sat there motionless holding those massive tits and then mother leaned forward again and whispered, "They won't bite you, you know ... play with them if you like. Fondle them!"

In a daze I slowly began to move my hands, outlining the shape of her breasts. I don't know if she misunderstood my awe and wonder at actually getting my hands on her jugs in real life, but she seemed puzzled by my inactivity. Maybe she misinterpreted my slow savouring of the sensation of actually feeling my own mother's tits, as some kind of reluctance on my part to touch them. Whatever the reason she seemed to become impatient that I didn't appear to be enjoying her breasts in the way I should have been (as other men had I suppose).

Suddenly she crushed my hands into her chest, and leaning forward again she hissed at me, "Enjoy them for God's sake! Be rough! Be hard! Grope me!!"

Fired by her words my hands began to move freely, squeezing and fondling at her chest.

"That's better," she murmured out loud. "But don't be so gentle. Take what you want. How often do you get a chance like this? Make them yours, plunder them!"

I groped harder and rougher, and somewhere deep inside I began to understand she was probably enjoying this as much as me

"Oh yes Baby," she moaned suddenly. "Now get inside my bra ... get inside mummy's bra ... tear it off! Tear it off baby!! Feel mummy's breasts ... hold them ... pinch them. Be mummy's dirty little baby!"

I was genuinely shocked by this sudden outburst, but so egged on by her unexpected encouragement and enthusiasm, that I launched a full front assault on her chest. With one hand I violently pulled down at her bra, and with the other I grasped at the emerging flesh, crushing the whole breast under my hand. I squeezed and massaged it, amazed at how soft and yielding it was. As her bra slipped down in the melee I grabbed the other breast too, and lay forward against her, my hands squeezing and fingering at the hard nipples, crushing and mauling at her magnificent boobs.

But of course it was all too much for me. As my face fell forward into her bosom, and I squeezed both her breasts against my cheeks and licked and nuzzled at her chest, my loins prepared to let go of their cargo. Instinctively I half wrapped my leg around her thigh and half pushed against, half mounted her, in an effort to maximise my pleasure. Then, like a rutting dog, I came in a scream of uncontrollable lust, filling my pants with my own juices.

But almost immediately I realised I'd gone too far. Suddenly I felt both guilty and caught out. If I'd cum so quickly she must realise I'd been very turned on all the time, and not as disinterested as I pretended. Would she put two and two together and work out I'd been conning her? In a panic I leapt up and ran from the room and stumbled up the stairs.

But it seems my mother was so caught up in her own lust and excitement at what she'd encouraged me to do, that for several moments she didn't quite know what had happened. I didn't realise it at the time, but her eyes had glazed over (as they did when she was sexually aroused), and her mind had drifted off into some timeless point in space. She'd been so worked up and turned on, she didn't even understand I'd blasted my rocks off ... and as she came back down to the reality of our humble living room, she was trying to work out why I'd left so suddenly.

Sometimes your luck's with you and sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the world bites you in the balls for no apparent reason at all, and sometimes its unbelievable generous and forgiving. This situation was a pretty good example of the latter. My Mother, you see, did what she always seemed to be doing in those days; she jumped to the wrong conclusion. One moment I was there, mauling at her breasts as she'd commanded me to, and the next I had cried out and run away.

So:

Analysis: I was horrified at what she'd made me do, I hated it, and I had run away in anger and fright.

Conclusion: It was her fault for forcing me to do those things to her too quickly and too dramatically. She should have given me time. Instead she'd just made the situation worse. She'd done more harm than good and she'd left me in even more fear of women.

Possible Solution: Apologise immediately and try and make it better. Somehow....

VI

When I reached my room I immediately stripped off my trousers and underpants. In a panic I stuffed them under the bed, to be disposed of later, and I stood there breathing hard and wondering what to do. I half expected Mother to come storming up the stairs, angry and vengeful. Should I get dressed and go down again? Or should I stay in my room ... and barricade the door?

In a flash of inspiration I stripped off the rest of my clothes, tossed on my pyjamas and leapt into bed. I lay there, covers pulled up to my chin, wondering what the hell would happen next.

After about five minutes there was a soft tap on the door.

I'd calmed down a bit by them, and the softness of the tap seemed like a good sign.

"Yes," I half mumbled. "What ...?"

"Peter?" She called, sounding anything but angry. "Peter ... can I come in?"

Oh shit, I thought to myself, what do I do, what do I say?

"Why?" I whispered, stalling for time.

"I need to talk to you ... please!?"

I didn't seem to have any choice. "Ok, come in then."

Slowly she opened the door and stood there looking at me with a crestfallen look on her face. She'd straightened her bra and done up a couple of the buttons on her blouse, but I could still see most of the top half of the bra, and one of her big bra-covered tits poked accusingly out from the side of the blouse.

"I'm so sorry ..." she whispered, dropping her head in shame.

OK, so I'm not the brightest character in the world, but I'm not so slow on the uptake that I can't see a trolley-bus standing in front of me. So it only took a few micro-seconds of mental readjustment for me to reply.

"It's ok ... I know you were only trying to help".

She looked up with a semi-relieved smile and took a couple of steps towards the bed. As I mentally patted myself on the back for my intuitive brilliance, she looked mournfully down at me.

"Yes, I only wanted to help," she sighed. "But I've made it worse. Haven't I?"

Immediately spying the trolley-bus again, I understood this situation could go in several directions depending on how I answered her question. It seemed important enough for me to give a few moments thought to what I was going to say. She was obviously blaming herself for something. Maybe I could do more than escape from this situation, maybe I could turn things around and get her back on the track I wanted to follow?

Her faced dropped as she waited for my reply. She seemed terribly concerned, scared stiff she'd done something from which there might be no way to recover. As I watched her face, and read these signs, I was furiously thinking of how I could turn what had at first seemed like a disaster into something just a little bit more promising.

I guess you could say I'm a bit of bastard really.

"Yes mummy, I think you have made it worse," I said slowly (and perhaps rather wickedly).

"Oh ..." she said simply, and as I watched, tears started to form in her eyes. "Oh, Peter I'm so so sorry."

"Doesn't matter," I mumbled as gracefully and condescendingly as I could. "T'll be ok."

She took a couple of more steps towards the edge of the bed and looked at me enquiringly. I nodded, and she sat down.

"What can I do Peter?" she began. "What can I do to make it better? Tell me. I'll do anything ... anything at all. I can't leave you like this."

I felt a warm glow in the pit of my stomach which, after a moment's thought, began to descend towards my loins.

"I ... I don't know," I said.

"Did you hate touching me? Was it really that bad?"

As I heard these words I suddenly saw the road ahead very clearly. 'Stupid bitch!' I thought to myself, and the warm glow slowly entered my cock which immediately began to rise to its former glory.

"No ..." I murmured thoughtfully. "I didn't hate it exactly."

She looked at me expectantly, her eyes almost pleading me to say something positive, something that would ease the guilt and pain she was feeling. Naturally I did my best to oblige.

"It's not really that I didn't like it. I suppose if I'm really honest, I think perhaps I did like it. It's just that ..." I paused, more for effect than anything else.

"What?" she whispered, bending herself down towards me, and giving another splendid view of her monstrous bra. "What was it?"

"It felt wrong," I whispered so softly that she had to lean even closer to hear me. "... wrong that I should be enjoying touching a woman, seeing her ... and feeling her in ... in that way."

"Oh Peter!" she said, tears now of relief running down her cheeks. "It's ok to like it. That was the idea; you were supposed to like it. I wanted you to like it, damn it!"

"But ..." I murmured, my eyes still taking in as much of her tits as possible.

She took my chin in her hands and lifted my head up to face her shining eyes. Begrudgingly I looked up from her chest.

"No 'buts' Peter," she said. "There's no need for 'buts' ... honestly there isn't."

"But," I insisted. "You see, I ...I wanted to see and feel more ... more of you. Is that wrong?"

And before she could answer I added, "It is wrong ... it is, isn't it?" just to make sure she had no way back.

"No of course not," she smiled, happily skipping down the path I was laying for her. "It's normal, absolutely normal. I want you to WANT women, to want to touch them. That was the whole idea. Don't be so silly."

"But you're my Mother ..." I said, carefully guiding her to a particularly important fork in the road. "Surely it's wrong to want to look at your Mother ... to want to touch her ... touch her bosom ... her legs ... her stockings?"

For a moment she didn't reply, and everything seemed to hang evenly poised in the air. I held my breath. Had I gone too far to actually mention her stockings? Was I being too damn clever by half?

And then slowly she reached down to the hem of her burgundy skirt and pulled it back several inches, revealing the tops of her fashioned stockings. She looked up at me and smiled, and thankfully all I could see in her eyes was still just relief.

She leaned down to my ear and whispered very gently, "if you want to see your mummy's stockings, want to touch them, want to play with them, then I think that's wonderful."

I smiled up at her, and my smile broke into a broad grin (I couldn't help it). "Honest mum?"

She took my hand and placed in on the top of her stocking and rubbed it gently across the material.

"That's nice ..." I whispered.

"You can touch me there ... touch me anywhere ... anytime you want."

With both my heart and my penis brimming with joy and anticipation, I slid my hand up her leg and under her skirt. I did this half because I wanted to, and half just to see what would happen.

She parted her legs slightly, allowing my hand to slide up to feel the tops of her stockings. I sighed softly, and she parted them further, allowing my hand to slide down sideways between her legs. As she sat there, still smiling warmly at me, I pushed my hand further up and embraced that wonderful junction where nylon becomes flesh. And then I pushed up further still, until I touched her in that most intimate of female places.

Touching her there was like pushing a button. Suddenly she stood up and reached for the side zipper on her skirt. In a moment the skirt had fallen to the floor and I was treated to my first full uninterrupted view of her stockings and suspenders. Even today that memory makes me shiver and go hard. I simply stared in wonder at such a magnificent sight.

It was like something out of a men's magazine. Her legs seemed so long and so glamorous, and the way the soft sheen of her stockings darkened upwards into thicken rows of nylon, to become the broad impenetrable brown of her stocking tops, simply made my eyes pop out on stalks. What is it about dark stocking-tops that are so provocative? They way the nylon shades and thickens, to be suddenly and abruptly contrasted against the pale skin of her thighs and the white straps of her suspender belt, was (and is) just so amazingly sexy. The neatness and delicacy of the material combined with the nakedness of her skin is just so unbelievably intimate. It was like she was uncovering her soul to me. Somehow it's all so quintessentially feminine, representing everything that is instinctively alluring about a woman. The suspender clips, for example, placed so carefully and so correctly around the stocking-tops, lifting and holding each stocking perfectly, and (I suddenly noticed) each clip even had its own tiny but perfect satin cover. It was all so fascinating, so sweet, so delicious ... and so bloody fucking sexy!