Unspoken Pleasure by Erotica

Mom Does Anything:>Ep4

My expression went from stern to glaring as I jogged upstairs, increasing my speed to get away from Mom's voice. I slammed my door once I was in my room. After a minute, I rubbed my hands over my face, and through my hair, then I looked at my door and then the doorknob, tempted to go back downstairs. My mother hadn't deserved that. All that she was doing was caring about me. But I didn't go, not until later in the night after my father had come into my room to tell me to make nice with my mother because between Mom and me, there was no question as to whose side he was going to take.

As he left my room, he said, "Hey, I'm not going without sex, too, because of you."

I shook my head and laughed at the casualness of his voice. Taking a deep breath, I smiled and went downstairs to make nice with my mother.

Tipping Point

I came downstairs to see Dad lying on the couch that made up the right side of the horseshoe while Mom sat on the back couch. Dad had a blanket pulled over his body, his head on a pillow, and his remote in his hands. It looked like they were binge-watching an original series, foreign but not dubbed. The show had subtitles.

I walked around the left side of the couch that made up the back of the horseshoe and sat down on the other side of my mother. Mom looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. Mom had changed into a pajama dress, which looked like an overgrown baby blue T-shirt with a cloud print. She sat staring at the TV and leaning against the couch's armrest. Her long legs were visible from the mid-thigh down thanks to the light from the TV, not that there was much light. Not that I was looking. Not really. I was looking at Mom so that I could mouth the words, I'm sorry, but my mother was my mother, and a person couldn't help but notice the smoothness of her swan-like limbs.

Since Mom wasn't turning her head toward me, I concentrated on the movie, turning in her direction every couple of minutes to see if I could get her attention. I couldn't. Which kind of sucked since I didn't want to sit through a subtitle-laden TV show just so I could make nice, but since those damn subtitles held her focus, I sat, and I sat, waiting and hoping that the episode would come to an end.

Coming downstairs to apologize for something was not new to me. I was still in my jeans and shirt, and in my pocket, I had slipped my phone. I reached down into it, pulling it out and lighting up the screen as I nestled into the corner of the couch across from Mom. I swiped and swiped, and Dad said, "That phone better be on mute," so I killed the volume as I looked up at him, but he wasn't looking back at me.

words, "I'm sorry." She smiled, but her eyes dropped to my

I shrugged.

What had she expected?

I looked back at my phone. I texted Jenna, who returned my text, but we didn't have much of anything interesting to say. We fed each other live

motion, had pulled her dress up along her leg so that it now rested between the middle of her thigh and her hip. She kept scratching at her leg, and

the hem of her pajama dress upward. She slid her hand to the side of her thigh, her long fingers inching beneath the hem while her fingertips slid across her skin, and the TV's

in her flaxen hair, so golden and bright that even in the near darkness, it shined like a beacon of light. My eyes shifted across her body, making the short, sideways journey to her breasts, where they rose and fell with her deep breaths. I saw, for

her nipples, which had grown stiff and hard sometime before I had laid my eyes on them. And they were stiff and hard, pointing outward like two solid eraser nubs that I couldn't remember sucking on as a newborn, but Mom had claimed that I had. What a weird thought. The dress continued downward, clinging to the round underside of her tits where they connected to

Mom's head twitched. I lowered my eyes to my phone, though that guilty look that crossed my face whenever I felt bad punched me right in the nose. I knew it was there, that

and the motion swung into her ribs and sides, then her hips. As she scratched at her thigh, still moving the hem of her dress, Mom looked at Dad, who had his eyes fastened to the TV, and then she lifted her butt and made a quick scratch of her cheek that pulled her hem behind her small, round, and

the fuck was going

her. My heart thumped hard against the underside of my chest, like a man bracing his weight against a door with one hand while delivering hammer blows against its face with the other. Mom smiled. It was a quick action

I'm not stupid.

I'm not slow.

I

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