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In the early part of Monday evening, Dad brought home takeout which commonly consisted of boiled shrimp, potatoes, and corn on the cob, his favorite. For whatever reason, Monday was takeout night in our family. Another reason that I remember those nights is that Dad did not eat with us. Instead, he took his portion to the garage-workshop where he was always repairing something, usually the lawn mower that I would later use to cut grass, or his truck’s carburetor which he boasted about perfecting.
After some casual conservation about the events of the day among me, my mom and sister, Mom asked if I would like some coffee to help “wash down” the pizza. She had never asked me that at the evening table, and her question promptly brought back the statement she had made that morning when I finished “performing” in her presence.
“Not tonight, but I would love some coffee in the morning if you have time.”
“Of course I’ll have time,” she responded, not taking her eyes off of me as she and my sister got up from the table at the same time. Mom ended our short conversation with, “There is never a problem making coffee for you, and use as much cream as you wish.”
There it was: The word “coffee” would be our confidential word for what was soon to become our bahis firmaları morning “affair,” such that it was. I did not use cream in my coffee at that age, but if I interpreted the word “cream” correctly, I was confident that I could experience more than coffee. In my mind, I had ideas that the mornings would somehow develop into more than just a show. As any normal young male at this point, I wanted more; however, even at that age perhaps because of my lack of experience, patience became my forte. This was too good to believe and too good to mess up.
Tuesday morning, my dad’s exit and my sister’s usual launch to work were followed by me romping toward my bedroom door, cock hard, but this time I opened door even farther, halfway. My bedroom was positioned on the east side of the house, which allowed the morning sunlight not only to dimly illuminate almost every corner of the room even with the curtains drawn over my two windows, but also to provide some degree light into the hallway.
Turning to get on my bed, I observed Mom had already stepped into the doorway wearing her red Terry cloth robe, partially opened from the neck down to her navel. Settling on my bed, my hand busy around my cock, the door still blocked half of her torso, but both her eyes were clearly kaçak iddaa locked on the entire existence of my hand’s movement around the hard meat pointed directly at her. The opening of her robe allowed me to see her panties covering a full V of hair, some visible outside her panties, but still only a partial left breast. Still no nipple.
There was no break or hesitation in beating my meat. I spread my legs apart slightly farther, not slowing down with my strokes, and my eyes were not diverted from hers. Every pump pleasured me, and this time my male sounds were unmistakably audible to her, including a high decibel “Mom.” The second that I said that word, her eyes widened and the hand inside her panties fluttered. I knew then that she was pleasuring her pussy, and I had to see more. I wanted more than just to look at her panties.
After pumping every obtainable drop of my cum, Mom sidestepped and quickly disappeared down the hall into the master bathroom. I am positive that I heard a whispered “Fuck” come from the hallway. That morning clarified any questions about her watching if any were in doubt.
Mom was still in her bathroom readying for work about 10 minutes later when I entered mine, a bathroom that I shared only when we had guests. Situated directly kaçak bahis across the hall from hers, when I entered, I noticed a cup of coffee sitting on the edge of a small note written on the back of a grocery receipt. Mom’s words penciled on the note were sufficient to fuel my heater: “Tomorrow, more.” Her words on that note could mean a dozen things, I thought.
Before I locked the door to leave for work, her note had already simplified my decision: Whatever that note’s intentions, tomorrow morning would be satisfying, and my door would be fully open as soon as my sister sped down the road.
We usually ate dinner in the kitchen dinette. After dinner, my sister went out and Dad predictably disappeared into the garage. When I got up from the table, Mom held onto my arm longer than usual when asking me to take the clean dishes from the dishwasher and put them in the cabinet. I took my usual position at the dishwasher as she stood at the sink rinsing that night’s dirty ones.
Her voice barely above the sound of rattling dishes, “You did read the note that I left?”
Hesitating, I told her that I read the note but was not sure what “more” meant.
“In the morning,” she quietly answered. Then added, “Do you beat-off more than once a day?” Pleasantly shocked but not offended, I could not get the words out, so I nodded yes.
She then stated clearly, “I do it too.” I wanted to watch her, I had to see her nipples and pussy, and I wanted to tell her in those exact words.
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