“I, I, I don’t know. I, I was just wanting to…” Julie paused, trying to find her words.
Finally she confessed, “My shirt was riding up and my panties were showing!”
“You didn’t have to hit me in my nuts. You could have just asked me to stop,” I reasoned.
Julie’s barefoot foot drew circles in the dust, her fingers pinched together in front of her, feeling a bit guilty.
“Ya, that’s a valid point. I, I, didn’t think of that.”
“Uuugh,” Dylan groaned, rising to his feet. His mom looked down at the ground, like a little girl recently chastised for stealing a cookie.
“I’m, I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“It’s OK mom. I might have done the same thing if my panties had been showing.” Dylan’s witty comment caused his mom’s chin to quickly rise. The sparkle in her eyes returned, knowing that her son was not holding a grudge.
Relief in her eyes, she leaned up on her tiptoes, placing one hand on his shoulder. She quickly gave him a peck on the cheek, one of her loose breasts pressing against his chest.
“Thanks, son. Let’s go to bed,” she suggested.
Julie’s heart was pounding now as much with her son as it was just a few minutes ago with her husband. While her body was not necessarily stimulated, her soul had been refreshed. The new arrangement with her son had brought a heightened level of gratification. All of the fun that she had with her son was now packaged with deeper meaning. The sexual tension that Dylan often introduced added a disturbing layer of complexity, one that her body subconsciously responded to eagerly.
The next morning my dad woke up with a slight hangover. My mom made breakfast on the outdoor skillet, wearing loose sweats and a thin flannel shirt. Our family hung around the campfire for much of the morning, talking about our plans for the day.
One of our camping traditions was always spending a day in the nearby town. So that afternoon my dad and I played for an hour at an arcade, enjoying their antique pinball machines. We caught up with mom who had been shopping. All three of us took turns trying on sunglasses, striking our best pose in the mirror.
We went to our favorite ice cream shop to enjoy some double scoop cones. My parents were sitting opposite each other, and I sat down next to my mom. She had traded her sweats for jean shorts, her tan legs now rubbing up against my own as the three of us shared our favorite camping memories.
My mom kept pulling one of my favorite pranks, pushing my ice cream cone into my face every time I went to take a lick. Holding my cone with my left hand, I put my right hand on her bare thigh, squeezing it gently, looking at her face with a warning in my eye. Each time she pressed my cone into my face, I would squeeze her thigh, my mom immediately squealing like a little girl. She is so ticklish.
Even my dad was enjoying the game, watching either his son’s face get coated with ice cream, or his wife get a tickle torture. Every time I squeezed her leg, she would press her body against mine, almost climbing up on me. Losing control of her body, begging me to stop, made this a fun game for me as well. Each time I could feel her warm breast press against my young body through her thin flannel. I figured my mom would soon stop, but it seemed both of us were addicted to the playful affectionate horseplay. Combined with my hand on her bare leg, all while dad was watching, made it all highly erotic.
As the game ended, we began to argue about the best flavor of ice cream. Julie noticed that her son still had his hand on her leg. It was no longer squeezing, but resting gently half way up, cupping her inner thigh. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Her husband obviously couldn’t see it, but without the playful game going on, it was definitely now an inappropriate touch for anyone but her husband.
She wiggled her body, hoping to wake up her son to the fact that he should move his hand. But in doing so, she only caused his hand to curl up her leg a bit farther. She didn’t want to make a scene, conspicuously moving her hand down to move her son’s hand. But it was getting hard to concentrate on the conversation and look at her husband, all the while her son’s hand was claiming her thigh as his own.
Dylan turned his head, looking at his mom and said, “I can’t believe you think mint ice cream is the best!”
Julie looked at her son, inches from her face, her husband observing their harmless dialogue. But as they talked, she could feel her son’s hand readjusting on her bare leg. He had moved it further up, the edges of his fingers grazing the denim hem of her short cutoff jeans. She felt his fingers curl in between her legs, palming her inner thigh. Her body felt like it was going to explode. Both from indignation, and from a new sense of evil arousal. How could her son be doing this to her with his dad watching them only feet away!
“There are so many other flavors that would definitely be better than mint,” Dylan continued his ice cream argument. Unnoticeable to Cliff, a mischievous grin flavored his words, something his mom had noticed. She had also noticed how his hand was now gently massaging her naked thigh, a pleasant burning sensation ignited deep inside her. Her leg began to tremble at times, quaking under her son’s touch.
As Cliff turned to talk to the waitress, Julie pulled Dylan’s hand away. She was immediately relieved, though her thigh suddenly felt empty and cold. She secretly admitted to herself that despite the impropriety, the feel of her son’s hand had been pleasurable, even exciting. Her heart skipped a beat, as she dwelt on her scandalous thoughts for another moment. But then she immediately chastised her weak mind for thinking like that about her son.
That night Cliff went to bed early. He was mad at himself for missing the early morning fishing from his hangover the previous morning. He wanted to get up early for their last day at the campground. My mom had changed into some shiny black yoga pants with a long sloppy sweatshirt over the top. The two of us sat around the fire, enjoying the evening. I spotted an extra 6-pack of beer that my dad had forgotten about.
“What do you think, mom? A little beverage?”
“No thanks, son. I don’t even like the taste of beer.” My mom knew that was partially a lie. She preferred the taste of wine, but at the concert, the hoppy fragrance and buzzed feeling had certainly been enjoyable.
Ignoring her refusal, I popped the lid of two beers, and placed one next to her. I began to drink mine slowly, as we continued our conversation.
Julie knew she should resist drinking alcohol alone with her son. Yet each time he took a drink, her own mouth watered, her body remembering the pleasant feeling at the concert. What’s one little drink, she thought to herself. Eventually she succumbed, grabbing the open bottle, and joined in with her son. The first drink of the bitter cold liquid made her body shiver as a warmth slowly filled her insides.
Julie and Dylan continued chatting around the campfire, their typical jovial conversation gaining momentum. It was the weekend with no commitments, just a mother and son enjoying the evening.
After they had both finished their first microbrew, Dylan said,”Hey mom, let’s walk around the campground loops.” He knew that was something his mom loved about camping, and something his dad rarely did with her.
“Yes! Great idea,” she responded, rising out of her chair.
Dylan quietly opened two more bottles of beer, carrying them with him. As they got about 100 yards away from the campsite, he handed one to his mom.
“Oh no! I’m good,” Julie said, lifting her hands in protest. Now that she was upright, she was already feeling a buzz from the more potent microbrew.
“Well, I can’t drink it!” Dylan said. “I brought an extra. Come on mom, two beers is nothing. You’re an adult now.”
She grabbed the bottle, but didn’t take a drink. As they walked into another loop, darker than the others, Dylan grabbed her free hand.
“No, Dylan,” she responded firmly, whispering in the dark. “We can’t do that. I”m your mother. Let’s not play this game again.”
Not releasing his grip, he said, “Mom, it’s completely dark. No one can see us. Besides, it’s my job to protect my mom.”
Despite her son’s clear attempt at manipulation, she confessed to herself that it was mostly harmless. Her hand did feel good once again in his, and she did feel better having him close to her in the dark. This loop was mostly empty anyway she reasoned. Without realizing it, she was soon taking sips on her second beer in rhythm with Dylan.
The couple wandered into another loop, still holding hands, Julie forgetful of her previous concerns of PDA. Her mind and body slowly being conditioned to the natural feeling of Dylan beside her, not just as her son, but as her affectionate partner. The alcohol caused her body to tingle, feeling like she was gliding on a cloud. Embracing the pleasant feeling, she allowed her curvy hips to swing side to side suggestively, bumping into her son at times. This was fun!
They heard some rowdy noise ahead of them, and came upon a campfire with a large group of people around them. It looked like several campsites had come together for the evening. A guitar was out, and chairs were scattered everywhere.
“Cheers!” someone shouted in our direction, seeing the beers in our hands, lifting up their own.
I moved my feet in their direction, pulling on my mom’s hand despite her resistance. Her protest of “No! Dylan,” I ignored.
Soon we were in a circle of friendly campers, introducing ourselves, making new friends. My mom had a polite smile on her face, but her body was tense. Underneath she was seething, mad at Dylan for putting them in that situation, and mad at herself for allowing it to happen. As they were still holding hands when they entered the campsite, it was clear to everyone that they were a couple.
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