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 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 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.
