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Just another simple cuckold story?

Until recently, I hadn't given it the least bit of thought but, as I said, things had changed.

Shoes off, I crept to the bedroom door, approaching from an angle that would make it easy to disguise my true intentions if Mom suddenly came back out. But I knew her routine well, most likely better than she. After taking off her clothes, she would go directly into her bathroom for a quick shower. This would usually take five to ten minutes.

I leaned into the beam of light emanating from the crack in the bedroom door. Instantly, I saw Mom, in her bra and panties, flash into and out of my field of view. Immediately, I heard the shower turn on. Happy with what I had seen so far, I reached out and gently pressed my fingers against the door.


I shot back into the darkness, my heart pounding madly. Retreating into my bedroom, I locked the door. Digging one of Mom's used pillowcases from my dresser drawer, I sniffed it deeply, replaying the sweet, brief image of Mom in nothing but her fancy undies. Reclining on the bed, my other hand quickly freed my erection and stroked it, slowly and deliberately, as her body danced in my adolescent mind.

I came two more times before her shower was done. At that age, I seemed to have an endless reservoir of come.

Mom usually wore a demure nightgown in the evening. That day was no different. I eyed her sweet calves and bare feet on the thick, green carpet as she walked past me, turning my gaze toward the television the moment she spoke.

"What do you want for dinner, babe?" she inquired. "I have some steaks, or some chicken."

"Both sound good," I smiled at her, lamely, guilty of invading her privacy. "Whatever you want."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and soon, wonderful cooking smells crept into the living room. After about forty-five minutes, she called from the kitchen.

Laying out the plates and dinnerware on the kitchen table, I kept the moving image of my mother's body in my peripheral vision. Obviously tired from her long day, Mom's body moved slowly and deliberately.

"Watch out," her voice cautioned. Holding an oblong Pyrex dish with oven mitts, Mom slid past me, placing the dish on the kitchen table.

"Mmmm," I smiled at her, "that smells great."

"Hold up your plate," Mom said, picking up a chicken breast with a serving spoon and placing it in my plate. She then dished some of the roasted veggies beside the chicken.

"Thanks," I murmured. Mom shot a quick smile at me. Her expressive eyes made my insides flush with warmth.

For most of our meal, we ate silently. I chewed my food, glancing surreptitiously toward the top of my mother's open robe. Her skin had a generous smattering of freckles, especially in the summertime, when the sun had a chance to bring them out and lightly bronze her beautiful skin.

Taking a sip of my iced tea, I studied, for the millionth time, the constellation of freckles from her throat, down to the deep, inviting valley between her breasts; the exact spot where she placed one drop of perfume, each weekday morning, before turning to the full-length mirror in her bedroom to primp her hair.

Then, slipping her stockinged feet into a pair of low pumps, she headed for the door. Grabbing her purse, she said a quick "Bye, hon," before disappearing for nine hours.

When she returned that evening, the scent of perfume would still be there. Only now, it had comingled with the natural oils of her skin, a tinge of perspiration and a hint of cigarette smoke. Mom had quit the habit years ago, but still liked joining her friends who partook on the roof garden of the office building.

When I was younger and less conscious about my mother's body, I would press my face into her breasts, hugging her tightly, when she returned home. This was before her breasts had become sexualized in my young mind. That melding of scents filled my nostrils and haunt me to this day.

Now, with my burgeoning libido, I don't hug Mom nearly as much as before.

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