“How does this look, Dylan?” she asked provocatively.
“Amazing! You look like a hooker!” I said jokingly, turning to the rack to try on my own matching pair.
Whack! I felt my mom’s hand slap one of my butt cheeks in a playful way, her hand lingering almost with a squeeze.
“A hooker! Is that what you think of your pretty little wife?” my mom responded, a mischievous look on her face.
“Owww!” I pretended. “Let’s see how you like your ass spanked.”
I chased her down the aisle to the back of the story, easy to catch up with her running in her awkward boots. Her hands did their best to block my deliberate attempts to slap her butt. Well, it was more grabbing and squeezing than slapping. She backed up against the wall, protecting her round ass from further assault. I walked forward, only inches from her face.
“Oh you think you’re safe, do you? Well I have a secret weapon.” My fingers expertly dug into her waist, causing her body to writhe in ticklish spasms. For several moments, my hands worked around to her ass, while my mom’s body jostled against mine. I began to playfully grab and squeeze her rounded butt cheeks. Her screams of enjoyment quickly transitioned into screams of panic.
“Stop it, Dylan!” she pleaded.
After a couple final cheap squeezes, I stopped squeezing her and embraced her with a hug.
I whispered in her ear, “thanks mom, that was a lot of fun.”
Her breathing seemed to regulate, now relieved that the tickle torture had ended. Before letting go, I added, “Plus, you make a great hooker!” Slapping her hard on her ass, running down the aisle as she chased me.
As we entered the car, I noticed my mom had loosened a few buttons on her flannel, revealing a white tank top underneath. After a few miles of driving, I made a suggestion.
“You know, mom. It seems odd you’re wearing that flannel on a beautiful day like today. I know you’re not a hooker,” a quick grin showed on her face, “but you don’t always have to be such a prude.”
My comment had stung. “I’m not a prude, son. I’m proper. And I’m your mom,” Julie answered.
She was disappointed in her son’s mean comment. So rude. She was disappointed in herself for caring how her son viewed her. Why does it even matter what Dylan thinks?
“I just don’t get it,” Dylan contintuned. “When we were at the lake last summer I saw you in a bikini….practically your underwear.”
Julie remembered that day. Cliff had convinced her to buy and wear that bikini. She had been humiliated, feeling so exposed. She had done her best to hide from Dylan’s view those few hours, though apparently he had seen plenty.
“But now sitting here with me you cover yourself with a flannel blanket?” Dylan reasoned. “I just feel like you don’t respect me.”
“Dylan, your guilt-trip is not going to work with me,” Julie responded, fully aware of her son’s attempted manipulation. “There is a difference between my relationship with your dad and with you.”
“Well, last time I checked my dad was not spending 50 hours a week driving you around, pretending to be your wife. When was the last time I went on a date with a girl?” Dylan asked rhetorically. “I’m stuck with this job. I’m stuck with you. The least you could do is throw me a bone.”
“Throw you a bone! This is not a negotiation. I am your mom!” Julie persisted in protest, though her mother’s heart had been awakened. Focusing on her own enjoyment the past couple of months, she had forgotten about the true sacrifice her son was making to help her. Her resolve was weakening.
“Do you remember my one rule, Dylan?”
Dylan’s face looked puzzled. Julie subtly moved her eyes down to his crotch. Awareness quickly updated his look.
“Oh, that rule. Of course!” he replied. “Don’t jerk off to mom,” he repeated in a monotone voice. “I’m not a monster. I would never think of you that way,” he lied.
A few minutes of pregnant tension filled the car. Finally Dylan suggested, “C’mon mom. Take off the flannel. I’ll be a gentleman as always. Stop being such a prude.”
Her son’s constant pleading had worn down all of her resolve. Slowly she unbuttoned her flannel and threw it in the backseat. Underneath she was wearing a tight translucent white tank top that did little to hide the pink half-cup lace bra she was wearing. Not only was the bra partially visible though the tank top, the straps and part of the fabric were simply uncovered.
She would never walk around the house in that skimpy tank top in front of Dylan, knowing Cliff was around. But after their fun frolicing in the gas station aisles, showing it off to her son didn’t feel that inappropriate. She had developed a new level of trust in her son. His constant gazes and pressure to touch her had covertly worn her down. Without acknowledging it, her often dormant biological inclinations ached to have her son acknowledge her ripe sexuality.
Julie’s heart rate quickly doubled as she settled into her seat. She had forgotten how much cleavage her top showed. She felt like a college coed streaking across the commons, though she was simply on a car ride with her son, the seat belt providing little sense of modesty.
“Shit! Mom. You look hot.” I blurted out, unable to control myself.
“Dylan, watch your mouth! What have I told you about cursing?” she barked back. A content grin formed on Julie’s face. Despite her elevated panicked heart rate, she was enjoying herself.
“Sorry, mom” I apologized. A comfortable silence filled the car for the next few minutes. I snuck a few glances at my mom without being too brash, my periphery vision also feeding my desires.
“Hey Mom. That was such a nice gift you gave Dad. It sure seems like he is enjoying his new bass boat,” I said as I stared at her gorgeous body.
“I know! I’m so glad I thought of that idea.” Julie felt like she was on display, like at the zoo, her son’s curious eyes surveying a new exhibit.
“You know, if it weren’t for that boat,” I continued, “he probably would’ve never let us go to the wedding. I bet if you would have known that, you would have bought that boat a lot sooner!”
Her son glanced at his mom with a knowing grin. Julie’s manipulative scheme, undiscovered by her husband, was all too plain to her son. And now she was sitting half-naked, his eyes persistently pressing into her. With sudden realization of what she had done and was doing, her body quickly became aroused. She crossed her legs, feeling extremely exposed. She had been deceitful with her husband, and now her son was an insider. It was like a juicy plot in a book, not happening by accident, but written by her own devious desires.
She felt dampness in her panties as her son began to more blatantly stare at her. A glance at his crotch revealed his own growing arousal, furthering her own pleasure. She thought about putting her flannel back on. She was feeling guilty and self-conscious. No, she told herself, she had already committed to this plan of action. See it through, she reasoned.
The road got a bit more bumpy, causing my mom’s tits to jostle at times. The top half of her soft flesh would roll spasmodically like an ocean wave, our car seeming to find every pot hole. Julie collected her beautiful blonde hair in her hands, lifting them above her head, seeming to wrap her hair into a bun. The action exposed her gorgeous tits further, lifting them higher on her chest as they stuck out provocatively in the car.
Both of us knew what was going on. My mom, generally shy and conservative, was spreading her wings a bit. She still was faithfully committed to my dad, Cliff, but was willing to enter into some new flirtatious grounds. Instead of her son being the only one to introduce a bit of flair into their friendship, she was going to do the same. It felt good to strut her stuff in front of her son, knowing it was generally innocent and harmless. Julie continued to play with her hair above her head, her chest willingly on full display for her son.
Entering the city for the wedding, our first stop was at the rental shop to get fitted for my suit and for mom’s bridesmaid dress. A seamstress was waiting for us. She started with me and made me stand on a little podium in a small room surrounded by mirrors. She adjusted my suit with pins, my mom laughing in a nearby chair each time I was accidentally poked.
She had put her flannel back on before we entered, but had left it unbuttoned. Leaning forward with her legs crossed, she knew she was giving her son a generous look at her chest from his perched position. After her exposure in the long car right, her flirtatious position, even now in front of someone else, seemed less scandalous.
Then Julie’s turn to get fitted came up. She came out in her dress, a light blue color with shiny satin material. It was strapless, loose in many places, in desperate need of tailoring. The seamstress had her work cut out for her. And so did my mom. She was struggling to keep the dress up and around her. I could tell she was a bit uncomfortable. This was not part of the plan, potentially showing me, her “husband”, a bit more skin than she had originally wanted.
I sat down and glued my eyes to her body, the dress providing occasional new glances of skin. Though uncomfortable, my mom responded to my playful comments, doing her best to make the best of the situation.
The seamstress began gathering the fabric of the floor length dress, pinning it in places to take out the slack. The dress had a long slit that slowly became prominent as more and more loose fabric was taken out. Soon the fabric was pressed tighter and tighter around her bubble butt. Boy was she going to look good in this dress.
The top of the dress was an elegant corset, with fairly stiff material that had way too much give at the moment. My mom did her best to hold the top of the dress in place, keeping her breasts from spilling out. Standing still that long in her 4-inch heels was putting my mom to the test. I could tell she was becoming unsteady on her legs.
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