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*~ Tied Mom ~*
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donb4103
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« on: October 21, 2015, 05:53:43 PM »
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Hector...... Can you imagine hanging that handle on your kid? Mine did. Everyone calls me Heck so that's okay but when my parents are pissed at me they always call me Hector.
When I was a kid it made me stand up for myself, kind of like the guy in that Johnny Cash song, A Boy Named Sue. I took judo and karate for my own protection but developed a predisposition to straighten people out which eventually led me into wanting to be a prison guard. A few months ago I enrolled in a training program to help me get a job in a prison. So, in a sense, my mother and father are partly to blame for what happened because, as part of my course work, I had to learn how to restrain people. We learned how to put people into cuffs, how to restrict their leg movements, and how to judge how long it would take before they would simmer down. For my part, I guess I'm to blame for bringing work, or rather school, home with me. I told Mom I needed to practice for the practical exam.
What's the big deal? I'm just going to put some cuffs on you for a few minutes. Frustration, the product of an exasperating back and forth exchange for the previous fifteen minutes, permeated my words. Mom shuffled stuff from one place to another on the counter and didn't answer me. "Arghh!" I stomped out of the kitchen and thumped every step on the way upstairs to my room. Ten minutes later, I was back, entering the kitchen quietly. Mom didn't turn to look but her body stiffened so I knew she was aware of my presence. "So what are you making?" I asked in the my I'm-a-good-boy voice perfectly honed over years of practice from getting back on my mother's good side after misbehaving. The tension in Mom's shoulders dissipated. "An apple crumble," she replied in a voice lacking the tension of our previous exchange. "That's great," I said. Stepping closer to look, I leaned over Mom's shoulder and pulled her left hand out of the way so I could see better. She didn't react when the cuff curled around her right wrist and snapped closed, probably because her mind didn't had no basis to predict what was coming, but that passive state persisted for only a brief moment. I pulled her right arm behind her back and almost had the left within the cuff when she twisted violently sideways to free herself. But it was too late. Her hand was firmly gripped within mine and she was no match for my strength. Still, she struggled for almost a full minute before I finally managed to snap the cuff closed. In her rage, Mom actually swore at me several times. I realized I had made a mistake. She hadn't settled down when faced with the fait accompli as I had expected and was too furious to let loose now. She flailed about so much, knocking the Pyrex pan full of apple crumble off the counter and onto the floor, that I was worried for her safety. Putting my arms around her and almost lifting her off the floor, I gradually worked Mom out of the kitchen with its loose objects and hard-edged counters and into the living room. There, I forced her onto her knees and then onto the floor. Using my weight, as I had been taught, I pressed Mom against the rug and waited for her to settle down.
She was pissed, no doubt about it, but eventually she tired and her fury turned to a sullen anger. Her body heaved as she recaptured her breath and I became aware of the soft bottom trembling beneath the thigh I had thrown across to hold her down. I looked down to check that the cuffs weren't too tight but my gaze strayed along Mom's long, narrow waist and followed the rise up to a set of nice buttocks. Mom, I was surprised to see, had a nice ass, especially for a woman her age. I also noticed the lump in my pants that hovered above those twin, quivering humps. I jerked my head away in an attempt to toss the wicked thought and sight from my head. Mom's full-bodied, dark brown hair was in disarray, covering most of her face which lay flat on the carpet, turned my way. Her breath rasped through the sprinkling of curly strands pasted to her lips with the sweat by her struggle, breath pulsing with a subtle rhythm that hinted of strange excitement not quite hidden underneath the anger displayed on the flushed face. If she hadn't been my mother, I would have brushed the hair from her mouth and pressed my lips to hers to taste the mystery of that raw emotion. Instead, I relaxed the tension in my thigh to relieve the pressure on Mom's back. "Can I let you go now, or are you still too mad?" Mom twisted her left shoulder up to look at me but her eyes were closed. The action f***ed her breast tight against her light sweater, perfectly outlining its form. I wondered why I noticed and questioned myself for continuing to stare as it sagged beneath the sweater and then ballooned to refill it with each short breath. Mom's eyes remained closed as she spoke. "Are you done?" she asked. "Yes." Mom didn't respond further. I continued to watch her heaving breast for a moment but came to my senses when I realized she could open her eyes at any moment and released her wrists from the cuffs. I rose carefully, ready to protect myself from a sudden attack, but Mom remained still on the floor. I scanned her body, taking in her legs, quite exposed because her skirt had been pushed up high on the back of her thighs. They, too, were rosy from effort, tense and muscular, yet gorgeously feminine. I slunk away to hide in my bedroom. Despite self-recriminations, I masturbated.
Wary of Mom's anger, I waited for Dad to come home before I went downstairs but the feeling of safety that had enveloped me upon his arrival dissipated as I descended the stairs. I was worried that Mom was aware of my appreciative observation of her tit and that she might have guessed what I had been doing in my room. What if she had told Dad? I watched Dad closely as I traversed the last few stairs to see if he looked angry. I tried to be quiet and was poised for a hasty retreat but he saw me and called me into the living room. I couldn't read his mood but dread filled me anyway. I trudged into the living room as if an invisible hand was roughly nudging me along. "So, how's the course going?" Dad asked, his face still buried in the newspaper. Pent-up breath expelled so forcefully from my lungs that Dad looked up in surprise. "Really good," I said, swamped with relief but trying to sound enthusiastic. "Any problems?" Dad asked, looking concerned despite my bravado. I sat down on the couch next to Dad's chair and looked across the intervening end table. "No, I just need to practice more," I replied, raising my voice in case Mom was listening. "Oh," Dad responded and turned back to his paper.
I waited for another question. Dad was in the habit of extending his queries after returning to whatever he had been occupied with prior to initiating an interrogation, or staring into space if he hadn't been doing anything. However, my expectation wasn't met. After a moment, possibly aware of my attention, Dad "mmhmmm'ed" and continued reading the paper. Feeling awkward, as I always did in these moments, I got up and went into the kitchen. Mom's mood was easily determined. She moved about the kitchen in the tight, controlled movements that were characteristic when she was angry. "What's for dinner?" I asked in a tentative voice. "You can set the table," she replied. "Okay," I responded meekly. I retrieved three plates and put them on the dining room table, then followed with glasses and cutlery. By the time I was finished, the vegetables were ready so I fetched some serving bowls from the cupboard and held them near the stove, ready to be filled. I was sucking up and Mom knew it but then that was the whole point. Mom filled the bowls without acknowledging my initiative but I knew she would be pleased. Despite her rigid composure, I knew from experience that she would soften. "Tell your father dinner is ready," she said, voice still terse. I carried the bowls to the table and relayed the message to Dad. Returning to the kitchen, I nearly blew it. Mom was bending over, pulling the roasting pan out of the oven. She was having trouble getting hold of it which offered a pregnant moment in which I had time to admire her hanging breasts as they swung to and fro, not to mention her shapely butt.
Mom was wearing a pair of Capri's that ended just below her knees with a decorative string tied on each side in a little bow. The cotton was thin and, in her current position, molded to each buttock. When Mom abruptly stood up, the material clung to each cheek, sticking so tightly that her behind looked for all the world like a set of half pears begging to be sampled. They jiggled appealingly as Mom held the roasting pan above the open oven door. I had stopped dead in my tracks and didn't move but Mom became aware of my presence. "Hector, don't just stand there, for goodness sakes. Get the door!" I jolted forward, turning my head to see if Dad had witnessed the inappropriate ogling of Mom's behind. Apparently he hadn't since he was pulling his chair back, getting ready to sit down. I bent down to grab the door and swung it up, acutely aware that my face was only inches behind the bottom I had so intensely admired just seconds before. I dared to quietly inhale through my nostrils. "Quickly, Hector!" I pushed the door shut and stood back, glancing at the roast, but my eyes quickly dropped to fix upon the tastier treat below. "Bring the platter over here," Mom barked, nodding at the far counter. I grabbed it and held it near the pan while Mom used two large forks to pull the roast up and out, then set it down, her breasts scraping across my arm. I inhaled again, this time loudly, as if appreciating the smell of a perfectly cooked roast but in reality I was enjoying the scent of Mom's perfume. "That smells awesome, Mom." "Mmhmmm. Take it to the table while I make the gravy." I did as she said and returned to get a carving knife for Dad. I stopped in the doorway again to watch the gentle motions of Mom's body as she stirred the gravy. She turned to look at me. "Here, you can do this." I took over and stirred the gravy while Mom filled a bowl with roasted potatoes. "Take this to the table," she instructed, relieving me of the wooden spoon, "and then come back." Her voice held less anger. I think she enjoyed bossing me around. When I returned, Mom had set a gravy boat on the stove. She told me to hold it while she emptied the pan. I managed to get my arm in position for couple more scrapes.
Supper was delicious and I probably expressed that opinion too many times but Mom didn't seem to mind. I think she enjoyed me sucking up as much as she liked telling me what to do. After dinner, I was told to clean up while Mom joined Dad in the living room for a glass of sherry. I was almost finished when she entered the kitchen. "I completely forgot about dessert." Mom dragged a large crystal serving bowl containing the apple crumble out from the back of the counter and removed the tea towel that covered it. She arranged three black bowls on the counter and dished out a generous amount to each one as I slowly dried the roasting pan. Mom moved deliberately, transferring only a small amount of dessert each time. She seemed to be aware that I was watching and I sensed she was pleased by the attention. Time moved slowly and I had the strangest feeling that Mom and I were momentarily in a world of our own. Mom got some French vanilla ice cream from the fridge and began scooping small amounts of ice cream into each bowl. Despite the glacial movement of her arms, her hips swayed with each dollop of ice cream. When she was finished, Mom closed the container and licked several droplets of melted ice cream that had strayed onto her fingers. She floated toward the fridge. I put the roasting pan on the stove and neatly hung the dish towel over handle for the oven door. Mom opened the freezer half of the fridge and put the ice cream away and I moved to the fridge and stopped behind her just as she shut the door. I was as surprised as she was when the handcuff closed over her left wrist, having removed the cuffs from the belt pouch behind my back without being aware I was doing it. It was too late to undo what I'd done. I expected a violent reaction or, at the very least, an angry retort, but Mom simply leaned toward the fridge, silent. I pulled her left arm behind her and then captured her right. Bringing her hands together, I closed the cuff around the right and pressed Mom against the fridge, forcing her to sag onto the door.
"Don't resist," I said, using the command voice I had been taught despite her complete acquiescence. I held the chain linking the cuffs and knelt down behind Mom. Tentative in mind but firm in motion, I patted her bare legs as if checking for hidden objects. The action became somewhat less absurd when I reached her knees but only marginally so, given the thinness of the cotton Capri's. I stood but kept my hand on the outside of Mom's right thigh. "Stop resisting," I said. I spoke for effect only, Mom hadn't moved or even acknowledged her restraint let alone offered any sign of resistance. My hand climbed up Mom's outer thigh to her hip and dipped into her waist, then moved across her back to the other side where I flipped my hand around. Slowly, I slid my palm down the outside of Mom's left thigh to her knee. Instead of kneeling so I could continue down to her feet, I brushed my hand past the back of her knee and slipped it between her legs where I paused to gauge her reaction. Nothing. Slowly, much more slowly, I scraped my palm along the inside of her thigh. I chickened out and stopped when the edge of my thumb was about to encounter the joining of her legs. Twisting my hand around again, I slid it down the inside of Mom's right thigh just as slowly as I had risen up the left. Reaching her knee, I turned my hand part way and brushed it up the back of her thigh, and paused near the top. "Don't move," I hissed. I slid my hand up onto her buttock and stopped. Mom released a sigh so long I suspected she had been holding her breath. I brushed my cupped palm across to her other buttock, trailing my fingers behind but pressing inward to assess the curve of her left cheek. I wanted to grip it hard but was afraid to step further out of line. Instead, I returned to the right cheek and lightly cupped my hand over its delicious shape. Now feeling too close to the edge, I left Mom's behind and pulled my hand higher, over her cuffed hands, and brushed the back of my fingers up her spine. Twisting my hand around, I found her bra strap, fitted my fingertips underneath, and ran them across her back. Pulling her arms to one side, I rubbed down the inside of her waist, pushing my fingers far enough forward to allow the briefest sc**** along the outer swell of her breast, then repeated this check on the other side. I wanted reach around to search underneath the sag of her tits but was again afraid of going too far. I leaned back. Mom looked flushed and her hair, despite the fact that I hadn't touched it, was in disarray.
"Okay, Ma'am. I hope you understand this was necessary for the security of the nation." I released Mom's hands from the cuffs. She remained still, slumped against the fridge, forehead pressed to the door and eyes hidden behind her tousled hair. "If you'd like to register a complaint..." Mom shook her head, the only sign she made that she was even aware of my presence. I stepped back and put the cuffs away. Mom pushed herself away from the fridge and stepped sideways to the dessert bowls, smoothing her hair as she moved. She picked up a bowl, walked across the kitchen to the cutlery drawer, and picked up a spoon. She spoke without looking at me, once again using her command voice. "Bring your father's in for him when you come." Mom walked deliberately into the living room, unhurried and apparently unfazed. I almost wore my cock out that night.
As usual, I joined Mom and Dad for breakfast the next morning. Mom was wearing the same kind of outfit as she had the day before, just a different color of pants with another white blouse, except this one was thinner or maybe her bra was a darker color. Anyway, I could see the vague outline of her breasts beneath the blouse better than the day before. They seemed to hang lower and appeared to be less constrained. Yes, the bra had definitely matched the white of her blouse before but this one didn't. Dad glanced up. "I thought you didn't go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays," he remarked. I looked down at myself, realizing only then that I had put on my trainee uniform. "Oh," I said, trying to cover up my surprise. "Yeah, well, uh, I'm meeting a friend to practise some of our techniques." Mom didn't look or comment. Satisfied with my answer, Dad returned to his newspaper. I tried with little success not to pay attention to Mom but it was impossible. While eating my eggs and toast, I couldn't keep my eyes off her pants, calves, ankles and the painted toes sticking out her sandals. When she sat down, my gaze strayed repeatedly to her chest and the outline of her bra which, I now noted, was black. This one let her breasts hang lower and allowed more freedom of movement, an observation confirmed each time she changed pages on her section of the newspaper. Her and Dad's rapt attention to the news allowed me free reign to gawk at her imprisoned tits. I was sporting a huge erection and it didn't help that several times, when Mom shifted her legs under the table, her foot brushed against me. Such a simple, accidental touch but one that had an electric effect. I almost forgot this woman was my mother, I wanted to touch her so badly. Dad dawdled over breakfast. Go, go! my mind screamed, so I can put Mom up against the fridge. But he didn't. I could have killed him when he asked Mom for her section of the paper. The Arts section, for Christ's sake. When had he ever read that? Finally, he finished. Even then, it took him almost another fifteen minutes to get out of the house. Mom went to the door to give him a kiss goodbye, as was her habit. I stood up and waited for her to come, and she did, as soon as she closed the door behind Dad.
"You can clean up those dishes," she snapped as she passed through the doorway into the kitchen. Sitting down in Dad's spot, Mom picked up the main section of the paper and lifted her cup to her lips. I stared in shock as she sipped her coffee but Mom totally ignored me. Okay, fine. I'll do the fucking dishes!. I gathered all the dishes, rinsed them, struggling not to bang them around, and put the food away. I'll even go one farther, I thought. I washed the dishes and rinsed out the sink. "Dry them," Mom barked, "and pour me some more coffee." That really ticked me off, more by the tone than the command, but I poured her coffee anyway, motivated by the black bra beneath her blouse. The hell with it. I thought, openly staring. Dad's not here to catch me. Mom didn't even look up. I dried the dishes and put them all away, in their proper place instead of just stashing them wherever as I usually did. I didn't want Mom to have any excuse to get mad at me. I hung the dish towel neatly on the oven door handle and turned to face Mom. "You can do your own laundry from now on. Get started." I stared at her. Really? I expected Mom to relent under pressure from my penetrating thought and put-upon stare but she studiously ignored me and concentrated on the newspaper which she could have read ten times over by now, her foot blithely tapping the air.  Fine! I'll do the fucking laundry. I managed not to stomp up the stairs, gathered my dirty clothes and took them downstairs. About to ask Mom how to operate the washing machine, I changed my mind. She was still tapping the air with her foot and seemed all business except that the heel had fallen off her foot and was flapping from her toes with each bounce of her leg. It was strangely sexy but from Mom's composure it evidently wasn't intentional. I walked quietly past her and made my way to the laundry room. I washed my clothes. I actually did know how to operate the washing machine. I waited until the washer was finished, figuring Mom would ignore me until it was done anyway. After stuffing the clothes into the dryer, I went upstairs. Mom was still reading the newspaper, for God's sake, and her foot was casually tapping the air although the shoe had fallen completely off but something about her seemed different. I approached cautiously and stopped ten feet away, unsure about disturbing her, and tried to determine what had changed while I was doing the laundry. There, I had it! Mom had brushed her hair and put on some make-up. It wasn't just lipstick but, lacking sufficient knowledge, I couldn't tell what else. However, her face had definitely experienced some kind of treatment during my absence. I felt a twinge in my pants and moved toward her, my confidence returning. "When your clothes are finished drying, take them up to your room. Put your socks and underwear away and bring the rest down here to iron." What the fuck? Did she expect me to do my own ironing too?
I was unable to hide my disappointment and, to make matters worse, I'm pretty sure I noticed Mom smile. Well, if not a smile, at least the corners of her mouth turned up. I stomped once on the way back to the laundry room but was careful to use more measured steps when I returned with the dry clothes. Mom looked fabulous and was still reading the newspaper. It was weird but the strangeness of it all made me even hornier. I couldn't wait to get her up against the fridge. I was sure this was all about paying my dues, at least, I hoped it was. I did what I was told. I put my clothes away, underwear folded neatly and socks put together in matched pairs, then walked jubilantly downstairs. I didn't hurry. I was savoring what was about to happen. "Mow the lawn." Oh, come on! This is too fucking much! But I did what I was told. I mowed the fucking lawn and didn't rush to make sure I didn't burn the edges. I emptied the clippings into the dumpster at the back of the yard, cleaned the underside of the lawn mower with a putty knife like Dad did, and used a rag to polish the top before putting it away with the cord neatly coiled.
Finally! Now it was my turn. I entered the house through the back door which opened directly on the kitchen. Mom was making lunch. The table was set for two with a plate and glass in front of each chair. "Milk," Mom said, but I was already on my way to the fridge. Mom put sandwiches on the plates and we sat down to eat. My baton, which I had put on while putting my laundry away, clunked against the side of my chair. Despite the noise Mom didn't look at me and we ate in silence. She sat in Dad's spot and read her Kindle, which was placed near the wall so she was facing slightly away from me, while I munched on my sandwiches and looked her over in barely concealed anticipation. Mom was tapping the air with her now bare foot under the table. The shoes, both of them, were neatly arranged by the table leg beside me. Every third bounce or so, Mom's foot tapped my shins since my legs were stretched out underneath hers. I looked closely at Mom's face, admiring the skill with which she sparingly applied her makeup. She had class. Inevitably, my gaze dropped down to her breasts for another look at that wonderful, black bra. My mind took a back step. A button had worked its way loose and the inside edges of the bra were clearly visible. The bra was lacy and followed the contours of Mom's breasts as they swelled together. The ultra-feminine quality of this piece of clothing made me tingle inside my pants and I was struck by a sudden realization that Mom had nice tits. Tits, not breasts. Mom had nice tits. Sure, they hung down a little but they were a nice size and their slump added to their sex appeal. I especially liked it when Mom's breath expelled and her tits sagged beneath the lace, providing a deeper though brief glimpse of their exquisite, pulsing beauty. God I wanted to touch them. I had to find a way to get my hands on them. I finished eating and got up. Without waiting for instruction, I gathered up the dishes and took them to the sink to wash them, except for Mom's glass of milk which wasn't yet finished. Quickly, I washed and dried the dishes, then leaned back against the sink and waited. Mom continued reading, quietly changing pages and ignoring my presence although I'm sure she knew I was there and what I was waiting for. My cock had grown. Not yet a full-fledged erection, it still my understanding that we were now on the breach of what I had been anticipating all morning. My crotch was noticeably swollen but I didn't care. I knew Mom wouldn't dole out any more orders. She had simply been teasing me and was about to reward me for my diligence and patience. At least, I was pretty sure she was. Mom finished her milk and held out her glass. Despite my wish to be cool, I grabbed it eagerly. "Just a half glass," she said. I froze in mid-turn toward the sink, processing her words and struggling to them to what I had expected. Silently, loathe to betray my frustration, I went to the fridge, filled her glass just over half full, and took it back to her. Mom grasped the glass but didn't acknowledge my kindness with even a glance. She read for another half a minute, then downed the glass in a single gulp. My heart surged.
Mom set her Kindle aside and stretched. She looked at me and smiled. That easily, she tossed aside all the morning's frustrations. I doubt she was aware of the white froth lining her lower lip but the sight of it made my cock tingle furiously. Mom rose and walked toward me, padding sexily across the floor in her bare feet, and handed me her empty glass. I rinsed the glass, put a drop of dish soap in it, washed it with the dishrag, rinsed it again, and then dried it. Mom watched me, but didn't say a word. I folded the dish towel and walked across the kitchen to hang it on the oven door handle. When I turned back to Mom, I witnessed her pulling the blouse out of her pants. I was stunned. Mom had her back to me and was gazing out the window over the sink. "It's so nice outside," she commented, freeing the last bit of blouse. I didn't answer; I was too taken aback. I noticed two dimples in the area just above the twin slopes that continued on to form Mom's buttocks. I didn't know Mom had dimples. Her hands disappeared in front of her. By the movement of her forearms, I could tell she was loosening the lower buttons of her blouse. Holy shit, exlax! Mom pulled up the loose bottom of the blouse, tugging it tight around her waist, and tied it in a knot, leaving her midriff bare. When she was done, she turned and walked over to the fridge. There, she peered at the various notes attached by the cutesy little magnets she liked so much. Her behind pushed out when she leaned forward to peer closely at one of them but I liked it even better when she straightened and cocked her hip to bend sideways so she could look at another note half way down the left side, freezer half of the fridge because this made her right buttock bulge out. Straightening up again, Mom put her hands on her hips, and leaned slightly forward but there weren't any notes or magnets directly in front of her face.
What the hell are you waiting for? I thought. This is it, an open invitation. I moved behind Mom, pulled out the cuffs, but then paused. Mom had noticed the jangle of the cuffs but I hadn't lost my nerve, I just felt it was my turn to make her wait. I now knew how exciting anticipation could be. So I did nothing, holding the cuffs in my right hand for over a minute. Mom was obviously waiting for me to begin, and seemed impatient. Time began to slow like it had the night before. I could see the skin on the side of Mom's face as if I was looking through a magnifying glass. So feminine, mature, and sexy. Tiny blonde hairlets sprang into focus along the side of her neck, undulating before an undetectable breeze, and her neck pulsed gently as she breathed. I could hear the air suck in, watched her hold it, and heard it expel. Now, Heck. Do it now. I returned the cuffs to the case on my belt and retrieved the waist chain instead. Quietly, I slipped it around Mom's waist and secured it, then adjusted the integrated cuffs so one was at the top of each hip. Gently, I lifted each arm in turn and snapped the cuffs around Mom's wrists. Mom waited, arms held beside her hips as if poised to push her hands into her pockets. I let her wait for another minute. "Don't move." I knelt down behind Mom and started brushing my hands up the sides of her legs the same way I had done it the day before, except I took more time. I was surprised to see that Mom had a small tattoo of a bunny just above her ankle. I was more surprised that I had never noticed it before because it wasn't new. My staid Mom had a tattoo? I circled the tip of my index finger around the tattoo several times, then flattened my hands more appropriately on Mom's leg and continued up to her knees. There, I brushed my fingertips across the spongy flesh behind her knees before starting up the outside of her thighs, hands moving in parallel. Remaining on my knees, I reached Mom's hips and slid my hands onto her pear-like ass. I paused to savor the press of her cheeks in my palms before sliding my hands down the back of Mom's thighs. I caressed the back of her knees again before switching my hands and proceeding upward again, this time with my palms pressing against the inside of Mom's thighs. I stood as my hands neared her ass and, when I brought them up onto her buttocks, I let them drag up along the inside of her cheeks. Mom's pear-like ass kept her cheeks well separated so my hands weren't touching when I cupped her buttocks. I looked down to confirm what my hands were telling my brain. Mom wasn't wearing any panties under the Capri's or, if she was, they were pretty skimpy. I couldn't help imparting a gentle squeeze. Mom stirred at that and pulled her tummy forward. "Stop resisting," I commanded, following her ass in with my hands. Mom ceased her forward movement. I lingered for a moment, then slid my hands over her hips and onto her bare midriff. There, I traced a path upward onto her blouse until my fingers found the outer swells of her breasts. I slid my hands up and down several times, feeling a lurch in my pants each time my fingers scraped over the side of her breasts. Becoming more daring, I dropped my hands to the bare skin of her waist and pushed them around in front until they rested on her belly below the bow tying her shirt together. I felt a large depression under my hand and realized it was Mom's navel. I circled my two index fingers around it, in turn dipping each into the center. Mom flinched and pushed her bum into my erection, whereupon she jolted forward. "Stop resisting," I hissed. But Mom jerked forward and back two more times, banging her head softly on the fridge. "Stop resisting," I commanded, hugging her to me and lifting her feet from the floor. I turned Mom away from the fridge and walked into the middle of the room, unsure of what to do next.
Had I gone too far? Mom jerked her legs around, churning her ass on my crotch. My cock loved it and showed its appreciation. Despite the wondrous feeling of Mom's cheeks rubbing around on my cock, I had to put her down. This was way too obvious and I was worried that Mom might put a stop to our game of pretending to practise for my course. Take her into the living room and put her down on the rug. Good idea. I moved Mom in that direction but a sudden lunge pulled me off balance and threw us onto the kitchen table. I landed on Mom's back, erection firmly shoved between her supple cheeks, instantly sending alarm bells off in my head. I pulled myself up which unfortunately, depending on the way you looked at it, pressed my boner more firmly against Mom's ass. Reaching around her waist, I pulled Mom up straight. She struggled so I pulled her tight, lifted her off her feet, and walked into the living room, repeating over and over, "Stop resisting." I don't think I realized until we were in the middle of the room that my hands had slipped up and I was holding Mom by the tits. Going red in the face, I quickly released her and she dropped to her knees, surprised. Automatically, a product of my training, I slipped my baton through Mom's arms and behind her back, immobilizing her. She stopped struggling. I was panting for breath. So was Mom. What to do now? Using a baton on Mom was going too far. I pulled it out and tossed it on the rug behind me. Leaning forward, I forced Mom onto her stomach on the carpet. She was quiet, the picture of submission. Satisfied, I stepped backward and sat down on the couch to catch my breath. I watched Mom. She was breathing lightly but quickly, recovering her breath as I was. Except for her buttocks, which quivered slightly, she was still. Her hands were still secured at her sides by the belt cuffs and her elbows jutted out behind her. "You can stay there until you stop resisting," I said.
I wasn't sure what to do and thought that might hold Mom at bay while I dreamt up something that would convince her to let me continue 'practicing'. After a few minutes, I reached out, grabbed Mom's ankles, and pulled her back toward me until her knees were about a foot from the couch. I held her raised feet between my knees. Now what? Make her stay still? Yeah, a time-out, like she made me do when I was a kid. I sat for five minutes. It was boring but I had noted a hint of excitement earlier by the fridge when Mom was waiting for me to do something and I was hoping to capitalize on that anticipation. I spotted the TV remote and reached over to grab it. Despite the momentary freedom, Mom didn't try to move her upturned leg. I turned on the TV. It was on the nostalgia channel, one of Mom's favorites. The "Walton's" was on. John-boy hadn't yet resolved the current struggle in his rural microworld but his triumph was near and the inevitable lesson would soon be imparted to the viewers. I looked at my watch. Yup, about fifteen minutes to go. Perfect. When it was over, I made Mom wait through the commercials. "Lassie" was next. I hadn't seen that for ages. Before I knew it, it was half over. I decided to wait it out. Mom had become very docile except for some discomfort evidenced by occasional bum twitches. Contemplating her bottom, I agreed with my initial assessment that she wasn't wearing much under those pants, which I found it hard to believe, but then, there was the lacy black bra, another surprise. Thinking of that reminded me how nice Mom's tits had looked. It seemed she had a nice ass too. The halfway commercials ended and I returned to the TV. "Lassie" ended and I refocused my attention on Mom's behind. It was twitching more but she hadn't complained. In fact, her legs had relaxed and her feet had fallen against the couch between my legs with the outside edges of her bare feet nestled between my legs and her toes almost reaching the obvious bulge in my crotch. My attention may have been stolen by these old shows but Mom was obviously still having an effect on me. Okay, time's up. What am I going to do with Mom? "Dennis the Menace" started. The old show, not the cartoon. I was pulled in yet again. Mischievous little Dennis, such a little brat, but in the end, an endearing cutie—his mother's delight. The commercials started. I really had to do something with Mom, but what? I guess I should just let her go.
Before I knew it, the sucky ending with Dennis and his mom was over. I leaned forward to check on Mom, forgetting about the position of her feet. Her toes bent against my crotch. I was startled but reacted quickly, lifting her feet before the contact lasted long enough to seem like a purposeful act on my part. To be safe, I pushed Mom's feet to the outside of my knees and held them there. I looked down. Mom's bum was twitching faster. I was surprised that she hadn't complained about her discomfort in all this time. I suppose my instructions to 'stop resisting' had been interpreted as real commands. Preoccupied, it was a moment before my mind fully processed the visual evidence before me. I shook my head, not believing what I was seeing. I looked again, leaning so far forward my chest pressed against my knees. Mom was lying atop the baton. The handle had been forced under the couch but the shaft extended out between Mom's thighs and disappeared underneath her so I couldn't see the business end, which was capped by the large rubber pieces we used to protect ourselves when we practised baton work in class. The white cap must be laying directly underneath Mom's pussy and had to be the engine driving her twitching bottom. "Leave It To Beaver" started up. Upon hearing Mrs. Cleaver's voice, Mom's ass twitched more sharply than before. I wanted to watch the show but Mom's ass was the more appealing attraction. It looked like she was getting off. I must have stared for three minutes without moving a muscle while Mom rubbed herself on the baton. When I finally did move, I only moved my foot, and then just an inch or so sideways onto the baton. Mom seemed unaware of my foot's presence on the object of her delight. I rolled the baton to the left and marveled at the way Mom's bum followed it, leaning that way. It was only an inch, but she clearly moved to keep her pussy on the stick. I rolled the baton to the right and Mom squiggled her ass after it. Fantastic!

I spent the next ten minutes rolling the baton to the left and back, but sometimes I moved it to the left and then a little farther, delighting in watching Mom's addicted pussy chase after the rubber tipped target of its infatuation. A pleasing sense of power washed through me as I controlled Mom's pelvic movements. I wondered if she would rub herself on the shaft if I lifted the handle. Unfortunately, it was stuck under the couch. Then I had an idea. I grasped Mom's feet and slowly pushed them forward, until her knees were almost fully bent. I spread my feet to push Mom's knees outward, forcing her thighs wide apart. I was now forcing Mom's pussy to exert maximum pressure on the baton's tip. While moving her feet gently back and forth, I started rolling the baton from side to side with my foot. Mom sighed, a muted expression of pleasure that sent a bolt through my cock. Mom's ass squiggled about, trying to keep her pussy centered on the baton, and her buttocks clenched and released, clenched and released, as she humped the stick. Whether she wanted to or not, Mom was getting off, despite my presence. The show would be over soon so I rolled the baton sideways faster and faster and flexed Mom's legs harder, rubbing her pussy on the rubber cap. I pushed her legs so hard, she actually slipped over the end, lifted her ass up, and tried to push herself back to recapture it. I knelt on the floor, grasped Mom's legs closer to her knees, and pushed her back onto the cap. She immediately began squeezing herself onto it harder and I rocked her forward and back, holding her calves just above her ankles. June Cleaver's voice filled the air.
Mom's thighs and buttocks suddenly went rigid, quivering. She was coming! I left her knees and pressed my open hands onto her clenched buttocks, pushing down, shaking her butt back and forth, urging her to come harder. Mom's elbows, arched above her side with her wrists clasped to the chain around her waist, flapped rapidly from side to side as if she was trying to fly. The rocking had moved Mom a couple of feet farther from the couch and she had dragged along. As her orgasm subsided, I realized I should remove the baton before Mom came to her senses and grasped the handle but it was pressed too tightly between her legs to drag free. Lifting the baton in an effort to break it loose only made the problem worse as mom scrunched down, pinning the inadvertent love stick to the carpet more firmly than before. I swung the handle up with greater force in a last ditch effort to pry the baton loose but this only pressed it even deeper between Mom's legs up to the crack of her ass, leveraging her forward on the rug an inch or so. Frustrated, I laid the handle down and left with the bulbous cap perfectly placed under Mom's pussy where she had struggled so hard to keep it.

When Mom was completely still, I quietly released the cuffs and slipped the chain from around her waist. The shirt-tails of Mom's blouse were loose at her sides. I guess the knot holding it closed under her breasts had come undone. I would have loved to turn her over, knowing her shirt was probably open except for one of two upper buttons, and that I would get a great view of her breasts encased in just the skimpy black bra, but I was afraid to go any further than I already had, especially since she was no longer blinded by the throes of passion. I leaned back on my heels. Mom was free. She looked spent but satisfied, her hair in much greater disarray than it did after the episode against the fridge. I don't know if her eyes were closed because she kept her face turned into the rug. "Ma'am," I said, "I hope you understand this was necessary for the security of the nation. If you'd like to register a complaint..." I didn't finish. What was the point? The words were obviously inadequate as an excuse for what had happened. What was done was done and I would have to pay the piper when Mom regained her senses. In the meantime, Dad would be home soon and I had something between my legs that needed urgent attention. I almost forgot the baton. Looking down at it, still lodged between Mom's thighs, I threw caution to the wind and bent down to grab it, twisting as I pulled it out. What the hell, in for a penny, in for a dollar. By the time I reached the stairs, I was leaking into my shorts. That evening was very strange because Mom acted like nothing untoward had happened. She interacted with me and Dad like any other day. She wasn't even mad like she'd been the night after the fridge incident. The evening was surreal. I was so aware of her as a woman yet she acted like the mother she was and always had been. I wished I could have sat with her on the couch as the woman she was in the afternoon, and I imagined myself displacing my father when it was time to go to bed. The way Mom acted made me question my sanity. Had I imagined it all? The next day was Wednesday, a full day of classes. How could I do anything with Mom? After dinner, she left me to do the cleanup again but didn't return to the kitchen so I could play with her out of Dad's sight. That night, I waited, half expecting her to sneak into my room, but she didn't, forcing me to again question my grip on reality. Wednesday dragged on forever and so did the evening. Mom definitely acted like nothing had gone on between us. In fact, she seemed like the perfect mom, almost a fifties TV mom, like June Cleaver without the retro clothes. Tomorrow was Thursday; no classes. I fell asleep with my cock in my hand.

"Mow the lawn," Mom commanded. Really? I had done the dishes and there wasn't enough laundry to do it again, but the lawn? I had mowed it just two days ago, but Mom insisted, so I did it. When I finished and came into the kitchen, she was making sandwiches and a fruit salad for lunch even though it was only ten thirty. I waited for further instructions but none came. Feeling it was too soon and that I hadn't performed sufficient penance to be rewarded, I went upstairs and changed into my uniform. Mom was waiting for me when I returned, leaning against the sink. She was wearing a different blouse, a pale yellow one, and I'm sure the bra underneath was different but it was still black. Beneath it, Mom wore a plain black skirt, not too tight but not really loose either. It was almost knee length. The blouse was tucked securely into the skirt; no bare midriff today. Mom looked at my uniform and glanced at the baton hanging from my belt. "I think you've had enough practice, Hector." I didn't like her tone. "You can never get too much practice," I mimicked the tone she used on me when she made me take piano lessons when I was younger. Mom smiled, obviously getting my joke. I was standing in front of her. Despite the fact that I was facing Mom and we were looking at each other, unlike previous times, I took the waist chain out of my pocket and curled it around her waist. Mom didn't try to block me. "I'm serious," she said. "You've had enough practice, at least on me." I clinched the chain—the cuffs were already perfectly placed at Mom's hips—grasped her left hand and brought it up to the cuff. Mom resisted. "No, Hector. I don't want to do this." I closed the cuff. "Don't be silly," I said, reaching for Mom's right hand. "I'm not being silly," Mom protested as she tried, but not too hard, to tug her wrist loose. I closed the cuff over her right wrist. "Suspects don't get to choose whether or not they're restrained," I said. "Suspect? I'm not a suspect." "Yes, you are." "Suspect for what?" "Terrorism." "Terrorism? I'm not a terrorist." "You fit the profile." Mom laughed, a harsh laugh. "Don't be ridiculous." I didn't reply. Instead, I pulled the black headband out of my pocket, a remnant from my martial arts classes, spun Mom around and wrapped it around Mom's head before she could move, and then tied it. Prodding her back before she could react, I barked, "Move." Mom stumbled forward a couple of steps. I prodded her again. "Keep moving."
I steered Mom to the doorway and into the living room, prodding her every second step. I positioned her in the middle of the room and then left, making enough noise that she could easily hear me going upstairs. Five minutes later, I returned and dumped my supplies on the floor. Mom had worked her way back to the couch and sat down. I pulled her up and placed her back in the middle of the room. "Stand here," I barked. I pulled the drapes closed and returned to my pile of supplies, noisily sorting through them. Mom's head turned slightly. She was listening to every sound. Good. I went into the kitchen and got one of the fruit bowls Mom had made for lunch. Mom had put it in the fridge and I made a point of slamming the door shut. Returning to the living room, I checked Mom's cuffs and the placement of the waist chain, though I knew they were fine. "Remove your shoes." "What?" "Don't talk. The suspect will remain silent and obey the officer's commands." Mom kicked off one of her black pumps, and then the other with a little more difficulty, almost stumbling in the process. "Down on your knees." "Heck, I'm wearing a skirt. I can't..." "Silence!" I bellowed. Mom was clearly shocked. Confused, she dropped onto one knee and then the other. I walked over and stood above her. Grasping her chin in my left hand, I turned her face upward. "Good," I said, and slipped a slice of orange into her mouth. Mom was startled and almost spit it out but recovered and swallowed it. A sheen of juice shimmered on her chin. "Let's not have any more unnecessary noise." I went to my pile of stuff and returned with a length of rope. Kneeling behind Mom, I started wrapping the soft rope around her left elbow. Mom opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and clamped her lips tight. I pulled the rope through to her other arm for a couple of wraps bringing her arms close together behind her back. It couldn't have been comfortable but I made sure she didn't exhibit any sign of pain. She grimaced, but only briefly. I surveyed my handiwork from the front. Mom's breasts had been forced forward, thrusting out and upward. At least one button had popped loose so Mom was showing as much cleavage as she had on Tuesday, though I knew she hadn't loosened any buttons today. Satisfied, I got behind Mom and wrapped another piece of rope around Mom's ankles. When they were secure, I tugged them up, enough to make staying on her knees uncomfortable but not too difficult. I tied the rope off to the line that kept her elbows together. If I pushed Mom over and tightened that line, she would be hog-tied. Surveying her from the front again, I was pleased that the upward pressure on her legs made Mom's stomach taut and forced her breasts even harder into her blouse. I turned the TV on and selected the nostalgia channel. "Streets of San Francisco". Nothing too exciting. I walked away and left Mom kneeling in the middle of the room. She didn't know it but I stopped on the stairs and sat there to watch her. I watched until the show was over and another one started. "Kojak." Mom occasionally struggled to stay upright but she didn't whimper once. I returned to the living room. "Is the prisoner hungry?" To her credit, Mom simply nodded. I slipped a slice of orange into her mouth and then a slice of apple. Before she finished it, I pushed another into her mouth. When she exhibited difficulty swallowing, I put my hand on her throat and stroked it. "Is that difficult?" Mom nodded. I put another slice of apple into her mouth and massaged her throat as she chewed. When she swallowed, I slid my hand downward, onto her chest, as if following the apple down. "Does that help?" Mom nodded. I pushed my fingers, bunched together, down to her solar plexus, my index and baby fingers scraping along the inner swells of alternate breasts until my fingertips collided with the bra stretched between them. "Oh, this could be a problem," I said, but retrieved my fingers without explaining why. I fed Mom a couple more slices of orange and then sat on the couch behind her. When "Kojak" was half over, I tested the ropes for the first time, making sure to run my fingers along the inside of Mom's upper arms and the entire length of her legs, up to and just under, the hem of her skirt. During the remainder of the show, I checked the ropes three more times.
Mom had now been restrained, on her knees, for two hours. I pushed her gently forward until she was lying on her stomach. "Father Knows Best" came on. I checked the ropes twice more, turning Mom a little onto her side in the process, and managed to raise her skirt a couple of inches as I twisted her over. When the "Andy Griffith Show" came on, I used the baton to prod Mom's arms, legs and sides, 'accidentally' pressing against the soft tissue of her breasts. Checking the ropes near the end of the show, I laid the baton on the rug, between Mom's knees and against the inside of her right leg so she was aware of its presence. The next time I checked the ropes, during the commercial break, I "bumped" the baton, pushing it underneath Mom's skirt. It landed high between her thighs but not far enough to strike gold. We were now almost three hours into Mom's preparation. I noted by her flinching right thigh that she was very aware of the baton's presence, a signal that we were ready to move on. "Lassie" started. "Let's get you something more to eat," I said, crouching over Mom. I pulled the tails of the blindfold back, lifting Mom's head and used a short length of string to tie it back to the rope binding her elbows. Retrieving the bowl of fruit, I fed her slices of orange and apple. After each one, I stroked and massaged her throat, reaching down and around to her solar plexus, and managing to scrape my hand over the front of her breast each time. I don't know if they were but I imagined her nipples were stiffening under the bra and the picture wrought the same effect on my own equipment. During the 'meal' I kicked the baton forward until it pressed into the crux of Mom's legs. I 'accidently' rolled it about with my knee as I held her head back so I could push fruit into her mouth. It hurt my knee, but it was worth it to hear the barely audible sigh when I rolled the baton the right way. After a while, I pulled Mom up onto her knees. Her feet were tied too high up toward her arms for her to stay up on her own so I leaned her back against me. Mom didn't protest when I wrapped more rope around her torso and over her shoulders, not even when I pulled the rope too tight, 'accidentally' pinching her blouse and popping another button completely off. A couple more 'accidents' left the blouse open almost to Mom's waist, baring the lacy, black bra which made of material thin enough that her stiff nipples were readily apparent. I wrapped the rope all around Mom's tits until they were forced through a mat of encircling hemp. I lowered Mom back to the carpet, slackened the string restraining the blindfold so she could comfortably rest her head on the rug, and replaced the baton between her thighs. Mom exhibited no surprise when I pushed it up a few more inches and positioned it beneath her pussy. We were beyond pretending.
I left the room so Mom could enjoy the baton by herself and noisily washed the bowl that had held the fruit so she would know she was alone. I went upstairs and took my uniform off. When I returned to Mom, I was wearing only my underwear, my cock ensconced within a rubber. I knew I wouldn't be able to last without coming and I didn't want to make a mess. I had meant to pull my pants back up but at the last minute took them off. Mom wouldn't know. She was blindfolded and I was certain she wouldn't remove it. I took my shirt off too. Mom was humping the baton and didn't abate even when she became aware of my approach. She was also squiggling her chest on the carpet which I found strange until I realized she was scraping her tits across its fibers. Mom must have sensitive nipples. I grasped the baton and lifted the handle up, applying greater pressure of the tip against Mom's pussy. I twisted it around and began rubbing it back and forth. Immediately, Mom's thighs tried to clutch it tight but I kept it moving. Her moan startled me. I guess she had been horny for hours now and was more than ready to come. I pulled the baton away. Mom groaned. I pushed it in and Mom humped at it but I pulled it away before she could trap it between her thighs. A minute later, I pushed it back in and let her roll around on it. While she was occupied, I tugged her skirt up onto her ass. For the first time, I could see the back of Mom's pantied mound working on the white rubber tip. The back of her panties, damp from the sweat of her exertions, were buried in the crack of her ass and the lower part covering her pussy was absolutely soaked. I grabbed the baton and pulled it away, prompting more groaning, louder this time. For the next half hour, all through "Dennis the Menace", I teased Mom mercilessly. In the commercial break before "Leave It To Beaver" I re-tied the blindfold so Mom's head was raised. Inserting the blunt, white cap back under the front of Mom's panties just as the show started brought a long, desperately pleased groan. As Mom humped her way to glory, instinctively knowing that I wouldn't interfere, not with "Leave It To Beaver" on, I slipped a couple of fingers into her mouth. While Mom sucked them, I patted and stroked her fantastic ass. I waited until the last commercial break of the show before sliding my fingers under Mom's bum and onto the panties that were now so wet they were almost one with her throbbing labia. I had thought she would be too far gone to notice my touch but Mom's breath came harsh and fast as soon as my fingers brushed onto her panties. I wanted to slip them underneath to touch her bare pussy but chickened out, thinking such direct contact would be a mistake.
One step at a time.
I allowed myself the thrill of pressing against her puffiness, forcing it harder onto the baton. My timing was awkward at first but soon I was applying pressure perfectly in concert with her short, humping movements. As Mom got closer, her movements became more erratic and her pussy sometimes jerked away from my probing fingers, but only briefly. She seemed to love the reconnection so much that I started drawing my fingers back as she strained for reunion, teasing her with just a pat before she just had to find the baton again. Thrusting onto the baton and then back for a quick pat, then two, quickly in a row. Soon, Mom was grinding on the baton, never leaving it. She was near, very near. I patted her puffiness constantly, never stopping, my fingertips probing inward until they were stopped by the panties. Our timing was perfect. Mom came just as the show ended, grinding into the carpet as I rubbed the underside of my bunched fingers over her panties, cupping them for a better fit, and jiggling my whole hand to help her reach nirvana. I didn't even notice my cock filling the rubber. I was very gentle when I removed the ropes. First I lowered Mom's head but left the blindfold on. Then I released her feet so she could straighten her legs and rubbed them before doing her arms. The cuffs came off and then the waist chain. I turned her over to undo the ropes and watched her breasts as they heaved in shallow magnificence. I promised myself that I would find an excuse to remove the bra next time. Man, that was next Tuesday, way after the weekend. How could I wait that long? Mom kept her eyes closed while I removed the blindfold and didn't stir as I made my way upstairs.

Mom wasn't quite the same later that night. Before Dad came home she changed into an older style, high-waisted skirt and blouse and did something with her hair. She looked like, well, June Cleaver-ish. And, despite virtually acting no differently toward me on Tuesday night, I became convinced Mom was striking poses, though briefly, when Dad wasn't looking. She wasn't obvious, and she never looked to see if I had seen or gave any indication that she was aware of what she was doing, but she was definitely doing it. It was simple things, like suddenly stretching a foot out to the side on her toes and tensing the muscles in her calf, prettily displaying her leg for someone to appreciate, someone who just might be looking. Or she would reach up into the cupboard to get something and then pause, freezing the instant that her breast was pressed tightly against her blouse. And once, she dropped a spoon and bent down, pausing as she picked it up with her hips cocked to one side, emphasizing her behind in a frozen moment that kept coming back to me for the rest of the night. I dutifully set the table, cleared it after dinner, and washed and dried the dishes. Dad noticed and commented when I joined my parents in the living room. "You're being very helpful, son." "He is, isn't he?" Mom chirped in, her expression looking as pleased as her voice sounded. "He's already mowed the lawn twice this week." Mom shifted her legs, crossing the left over the right as she spoke without missing a stroke in her knitting. I didn't even know she knew how to knit. I had never seen her do it before. "That's great but he's going to have to get a job before he gets a car. We'll loan him the money, but not until he has a job." "Oh father," Mom said. "That's not why he's being so helpful. He's just growing up. He's becoming a young man." "That so, son?" "It's just discipline, Dad. A guard has to be to be disciplined and a good one should be helpful at home and contribute to the community." "Well, you are being helpful." "I'm trying." "Maybe you can have that loan a little sooner." Dad shook his newspaper and buried his head within it, a sign that he had said his bit. Mom said nothing but a faint, quirky smile perched on her lips. She looked so hot I wished she would go into the kitchen so I could pull her arms behind her and press her into the fridge and grind my pants against her old-fashioned, tweed skirt. "Are you going to make tea, Mom?" I asked hopefully. "No, I'm fine right where I am." The smile deepened. "I wouldn't mind a cup if you're making it, though." "Me too," Dad piped up. I made the tea and brought them each a cup, fixed the way each one liked it without asking for their preferences. Dad didn't notice but Mom did and rewarded me with a warm smile. "Anyone mind?" I asked, waving the remote. Nobody answered. I turned the TV on. It was still on the nostalgia channel which threw a splatter of electric sparks bouncing around my balls and cock for half a minute of remembrance. There was an old movie on. "I love this movie," Mom exclaimed. We watched it. It was boring but watching Mom wasn't. She stretched a few times, arching her back slightly. The good part was that she held her position, breasts thrust against her blouse, for longer than seemed necessary. At one point in the musical, she re-crossed her legs, bringing the right over the left, and began tapping her foot to the music. Soon her shoe was dangling from her toes, reminding me of that moment a few days ago. Eventually, the shoe dropped but Mom's freshly painted toes kept the beat. I hardly got any sl**p that night. I kept thinking of Mom in her June Cleaver outfit and, in my mind, I criss-crossed ropes all around it. Somehow, even though she was all tied up, Mom managed to cross her legs and bounce her foot over her knee, teasing me with her dancing, painted toes.

I was in classes all day Friday and shortly after I got home, Mom and Dad went out for their regular dinner date. Mom looked striking in a muted outfit borne of another era. Dad was oblivious to what she was wearing but I complimented her and she seemed pleased. They didn't come home until much later than usual. Mom's doing, I'm sure. She knew how to tease. The next day was Saturday. Dad always hung around the house on the weekends so I knew there would be little opportunity to get Mom alone, at least for the time needed to do what I wanted to do. I mowed the lawn yet again, did my own laundry, cleaned up the garage, and washed the cars, both Mom's and Dad's. Looking down the street, across and one house down, I saw Mrs. Draper washing her car at the bottom of the driveway where it was easy to be seen, as usual. It was always a long affair for her, more advertising than cleaning. Her bleached blonde head turned whenever a car drove by and she often smiled and waved. Whenever she did, you knew it was likely a man alone in the car, one of the husbands living on the street. She was about ten years or so younger than Mom and had a killer body. Every man looked at her as they drove by. The key to Mrs. Draper's behavior was the van parked in her driveway. "The Love Den" was painted on the sides underneath a line sketch of a sexy woman's prone figure. She and her husband owned a sex shop and the preening display of her hot body, clad in clinging, stretchy tank top and short shorts, was designed to attract potential customers. At first, many of the neighborhood women had shunned Mrs. Draper but a number of them no
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