Mending a Mother's Pain Ch. 01

My mother and I just relocated to a new town, trying to get out from under the emotional and physical thrashing of divorce. It all began when and Mom and Dad caught Dad cheating, and Mom's gonna be glad it's Mom.

Dad was justifiably angry and ashamed, but that's when things started to fall apart. Puberty shit is so evil the entire situation fucked up my college plans and I quit my part-time job to help her.

Our new house is smaller than the old one: Did I say small? We occasionally refer to it as "cozy." And you know what?

After we got the place fixed up, Mom launched her search for a job. She'd take the train to the business district for interviews, and I assumed she had walked into those three meetings feeling good about herself.

But when she entered the door behind it, she was shattered. "Oh my God," she muttered to herself, dropping her bag on the kitchen table and vanishing into the bathroom.

She came out a moment later, sloping with a wet towel in hand, and flopped down on the couch. She tossed the towel over her eyes, tipped her head back and just let herself sink into it.

I couldn't help noticing how she had the effect of a lovely pale face, kind of falling in a gentle curve to the collar of her shirt.

Mom's only forty, but she could be mistaken for my sister. She was my mom at eighteen and Dad was twenty-six, though, so his penchant for younger women never died, and that was what eventually ended their relationship.

She's maintained herself in good shape always, going to the gym regularly. I'd hang out with my friends in middle school and they would not stop going on about how hot she was.

Her hair tumbles over her shoulders like a waterfall, and even when the wind tousles it a bit, it's beautiful.

On that day, she sported a jacket with a short skirt. The top was tight and that and showed her fit chest; deep cleavage poked out from the tank top.

The jacket's strong, clean lines amped up her narrow waist and exaggerated her curves all the more. Later, I realized there was not a jot or a tittle of sag anywhere.

The hem of the skirt ended a few inches above her knees while her lengthy legs were encased in a pair of nude hosiery.

There curled up on the couch, I couldn't help noticing how thin their faces appeared. It was only a little distance, and I could manage to get a faint view of the tops.

"My poor feet, my poor feet," she sighed, sore-feetedly kicking her heels off and massaging her arches.

Her head remained still, her face expressionless, yet as she moved her feet, I felt a flicker of challenge in her eyes.

Everything was very likely fine, I thought, and then I recalled the off-channel remark of a friend: "I bet your mom's legs are to hell from running around all day." A flush spread over my face, and I had a premonition of a hunch. "Do you want me to rub your feet?" I asked. "Oh, that'd be amazing!" she said, perking up.

I stood and plopped myself on the coffee table, right in between her legs. She put one foot up onto the table beside me and I leaned back enough to hold it against my knee. I slowly bent her toes backward to stretch the top of her foot and she gave a little sigh, relaxing into it.

I began to knead the soles and arches and she went to mush. Her body twitched on occasion, just reflex, as she pulled her head back to soak it in.

As I sat there quietly observing, something caught my eye.

Her left leg was tucked against my knee, her right leg was draped on the table, and each time I shifted, her skirt inched up another inch.

And then I saw her panties, a solid, bright red that grabbed me immediately.

I averted my eyes at first, but as I continued to massage and she began to let go and release those soft, tranquil moans, I turned and looked at her face.

She couldn't recognize me, I reminded myself. So I stared for a moment, really taking my time. I crept her ankles, her exquisite legs, all up.

I had never stopped to consider it, but this was something skating on dangerous ice, the ice cold with unspoken tension. I could just see a ghostly form, a mass of artfully disheveled hair, and I stretched.

"OK, let's change feet," I said, casually as I could. I placed her left leg on the table and raised her right one to rest on my knee, without letting it go too close to me (you know for what). I gave a quick glance upward to see if she'd caught it but began again, my eyes sliding from her foot up to her lap.

She kept her legs only a tiny bit open, but for me it was enough. When we traded places, her panties rode up a little, offering a hint of flesh and more hair. I knew it wasn't good for me, but it ignited me and I wanted more. I pressed on and she would not stop moaning softly.

I worked her slender calves, behind her ankles.

"Wow, you're all tense here," I threw when I was a guest in mixed company (lightly toned).

She stopped for a beat, and then resumed those low moans of hers. "Should I do your legs?" I inquired, shooting for cool and neutral.

Unbeknownst to me, she went quiet for a moment, and I could tell she was no spring chicken, she had me pegged. "Yes, of course, that's alright," she said, her head still, her expression unchanged. I'm no stranger to this junk, jogging and going on fitness all the time, so I know how to stretch.

What I had in mind wasn't a massage, per se, but something else altogether. Worst case, she'd catch on.

"Fine, but uncross your legs first. Bend your leg and hold it up," I instructed her, biding time. "Hmm, okay," she replied. I bent her left leg, drew her knee into her chest, which pulled everything up, her legs, her hips.

I raised it higher and higher until her chest was pressing against her chin, and, as I did, I smelled the scent of her perfume from the day before, of her sweat.

Looking down, I could see the edge of her bra tape sticking out of her tank top. I held her leg there for twelve seconds before rolling her leg down.

"That was amazing, do it again!" she said, almost eager. Of course I did; I put her left leg on the table, grabbed her right, and did the stretch again.

"This is a club find?" she asked. "Yeah,"I said, glancing at the towel, to assert the eyes were still covered. Then I noticed something.

She'd lifted a hand to yank at her skirt and smooshed her chest, and one nipple popped right out, dark pink and bigger than I'd thought it would be (it looked swollen, maybe?).

I almost lost track of time, my fingers moving of their own volition on her calf. I moved my body, adjusted her leg to achieve a better angle.

"I'm sorry, my hands are slipping," I said, raising her stockings up just below her knees. "Oh, that feels good too," she whispered.

So I carefully slid the stockings off and let them drop to the floor between the couch and coffee table. The other was trickier, nestled high up her thigh, and even now it would take guts to peel it away.

My hand moved six inches closer to her lap, and she didn't shrink away. I felt her smooth legs touch through them, and I wondered why she wore stockings at all.

I looked at her face, so peaceful and serene, and took advantage of the fact that she couldn't see me, let my eyes drift and descend again.

They popped right out of my head almost. Where she pulled it and arched her thigh, it was roosted up so that each layer cascaded out at the hem.

Her panties were not only visible, they were proudly on display. Not even the best part, her panties were so snug on her I could see everything down there, a perfect, fleshy outline with just a little bit of hair. I had never been so excited in my life.

I moved the massage up to her thighs from her calves, slow and careful so she could get used to it. Now I got to see everything up close, and I directed all of my focus into making this the best massage I could, praying that this little secret wouldn't end the fun too early.

But then came the catch. I was getting nearer and nearer to her thighs, too close to where I couldn't go, and with her soft moans still coming every now and then, I was treading on an explosive area.

I took a break at a couple of inches out and changed legs. Her moans cut off sharp. "Let's switch," I said. "Mmm, I guess," she replied, and an inflection in her tone lit a hunch.

I'm not a novice at this but I'm no Casanova either. Yet from the change of her tone, I found that possibly she was one step in advance of me. Everything to that point had me tight, but that set me off on 11. I released her ankle and moved up to her calf, my gaze flicking between her face and her lap.

I couldn't stop gazing at that naked figure in my bathroom, horrified that it was my own mom's... well, you know. The word struck me and I looked harder, finding a little darker spot on her red panties. Was she wet? I kept massaging, daring to inch higher so I could hear her soft moans more clearly, her breathing mingling in. I crawled until I was a half inch from her hips, and it killed me not to touch her. We both went dead quiet.

"How's your back?" I finally blurted out.

She didn't answer right away. "If you're game, that'd be awesome," she said, cool and smooth, and: "You're an angel."

She was trying to get us back to normal, I could tell. She pulled her towel away from her face, then sat up, and I caught her checking herself out.

After a break, she sat back and shrugged her jacket off then glanced at me. "This alright?" "What's going on?" she inquired, in a slightly odd tone.

I could see her shoulders rise in a puzzled shrug. "It's up to you," I said, feeling both numb and keenly self-conscious. "Hmm, let's just do this instead," she said. "Turn around." "Oh--sure," I answered, stammering, "Yeah, okay." I looked away.

She pulled her tank top and bra off, and peeled the nipple covers off, then left them on the couch. "Alright," she said.

I look back, and she is lying there. She lay with her face down on her arms, her unclothed back exposed.

My eyelids slid down, my sight catching her skirt still balled around her waist. I saw the curve of her butt and that's when I got it, her red panties were a thong.