A Widows Comfort Ch 02

I woke when I felt the bed bouncing as she rolled out.

The little clock that sat on my headboard since I was in the third grade read 6:22 and I thought, "Fuck, Mom, what the hell." I NEVER got up this early.

I heard the toilet flush and then the water running.

She came back, saw that I was awake, and said, "I'm sorry, Honey, I didn't mean to wake you. Should I go to my own bed?"

I flipped the spread and sheet back in invitation. She smiled, the first truly happy smile I had seen since the funeral.

She crawled in, and kissed me, a true man-woman kiss.

It didn't linger, but it was a true kiss.

As she snuggled against me her belly brushed my erection.

She giggled and said, "Watch it buster," as she settled against me.

"What the FUCK, Mom?" I asked myself.

And I realized she had gone back to sleep.

I ran my palm over her soft arm. God, she was SO soft and SO warm. I let my finger trace the line where the elastic of the puffy sleeve put a distinct dent into that sweet skin.

I snuggled against her and let my hand run slowly down her back. I could feel each roll and loved each one separately. There was something about the way she felt under my hand that made me want to squeeze, to feel her softness more, well, more completely if that makes any sense.

I relaxed and drifted off with her in my arms.

For the second time that morning, I woke when she got up.

For the second time that morning, I watched as she left the room, this time heading into the hall, not the bathroom.

And I knew I wouldn't be able to do anything until I drained the old dragon so I laid back and masturbated. I pulled my shorts off and laid them beside me for future use. As I jacked off, I laid back, closed my eyes, and was surprised when the image that came was Mom. I could see her in my bed, but this time with no clothes on. I could see those immense breasts, so big they sort of fell off to her sides. I could see her cute face, all twisted in the rictus of excitement and then orgasm. I could see her body, soft and white, the rolls soft and sexy. I could feel her legs, those thick thighs so warm, wrapped around me. And as I came, the hot thick jets of my release making a line from my cock to a spot between the pectoral muscles of my chest, I could hear her, urging me to finish, to fill her up, to give me the "mangift," and to "claim" her.

I gasped a couple of quick breaths, wiped the cum from my belly with my shorts, and then rolled out of bed. I threw the shorts into the hamper, pulled on fresh replacements, pulled on my jeans and another T-shirt, and then padded, barefoot, to face the day.

In the kitchen, Mom was back. This was not the drunken sot I'd found asleep, or passed out, in the recliner. She was, well, Mom. She was bustling around the kitchen. I could smell coffee and spotted the makings of an omelet. The eggs were sitting in a glass bowl, the proper color, buttercup yellow, coming to room temperature. Toast sat in the fancy four-slice toaster that I remembered her being so proud of when she brought it home. The round, flat griddle was on the stove with bacon strips lying on a paper plate on the countertop.

I snuck up behind her and laid my hands on her hips.

She didn't jump.

"You always did know how to take care of your men," I said, kissing the back of her head.

"And now you're the Man of the House," she said, leaning her head to the side, offering her neck.

The way she said "Man of the House" made the capitalization obvious but, more importantly, made me understand, or at least have the first glimmerings of understanding, our new relationship.

I chuckled, bent, and nipped the soft skin she offered.

"Okay, Lady of the Manor," I said, reaching across her to get a cup from the cabinet.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and then sat at the kitchen table, watching and thinking.

And having a conversation with myself.

"She called you the 'Man of the House,'" I thought, "what does that mean?"

"Nothing, dumbass," I replied to myself, "just breakfast chatter after you laid your hands on her hips like that."

"But she slept with me," I thought.

"She was lonely and still in shock," I replied.

"That felt like something more," I thought.

"Don't flatter yourself, Romeo," I replied.

"Where are you?" she asked, making me jump, both physically from being startled and figuratively as I broke out of my reverie.

I smiled and looked down at what was a restaurant-quality breakfast.

"I was just thinking that you probably have some pet chores the Man of the House should take care of," I said, smiling across the table at her.

Mom is fun to eat with. She gave up dieting long ago and thoroughly enjoys every bite. It was good to see her eating with gusto. After the way I found her yesterday, I was worried.

But I needn't have been. She obviously enjoyed every bite and, well, it WAS Saturday so that double shot of

Grey Goose

she added to her orange juice was a little early but so what?

"Well," she said around a healthy mouthful of omelet, "there is that screen door that won't seem to latch."

"Sounds like my Saturday project," I said.

We finished breakfast in companionable silence and then washed, dried, and put dishes away in a dance we had rehearsed over the years.

I felt a moment's nostalgia as I got Dad's general-purpose toolbox from its accustomed place on a shelf under the garage workbench and went to work on the malfunctioning screen door. I could almost feel Dad standing there as I tested the door, identified the sticking area, removed it, applied a few strokes with Dad's, well, now I suppose, "my" old block plane, and rehung the door. It sounds simple, I know, but it took pretty much all morning.

Which brought me to lunch and one of Mom's four-cheese grilled cheese and tomato soup meals.

"Trying to fatten me up?" I asked across the table, chuckling.

"Maybe you can catch up with me," she said, giggling and slapping her ass.

"What else?" I asked.

"It's time to hang the screens and put the storm windows away," she said.

I groaned.

It was an old house with old-fashioned screen and storm windows. You know, the kind with the latches on top to hang the windows from and the hooks at the bottom to lock them in place. Every spring the storm windows came down and the screens went up. Every fall the screens came down and the storm windows went up.

I realized since it was late May, that it was late in the season. And then I got a little teary-eyed when I realized that Dad's health had probably been failing and he hadn't wanted to call me for help.

"Tell you what," I said, smiling, "I have finals next week, so that will have to wait and then I'll get them done."

She smiled and said, "If that's what you want to do. You're the Man of the House."

"What I'd like," I said, smiling across the table, "is to take the Lady of the House to dinner and have a few drinks, maybe some dancing."

She giggled.

"Are you asking me on a date?" she asked.

"Every couple should have a regular date night," I said, "and Saturday would be a good one."

She actually blushed at that.

"One

caveat

," I said.

"Oh?" she asked.

"I get to pick out what you wear," I said.

"Oh?" she asked again.

"Mom," I said, "you sometimes seem to deliberately dress to look your absolute worst. I'll be proud to have you on my arm. But I don't want you trying to look, well," and I had to think way back to find the word from about third grade, "frumpy."

She giggled at that.

"Frumpy?"

And I laughed. "I think that word goes back to when I was about eight," I said, "but I think it fits with most of what's in your closet."

She smiled and then said, "I'm flattered and I'll be honored to be your date and yes, Honey, you can pick out what I wear."

"Okay," I said, "And now I'm going to do a bit of studying. If I go to sleep, make sure I'm awake by, oh, say, 5:00. I'll shower and look good for Date Night."

She giggled again and said, "I will."

So I went up to the little desk I had used since about the time I learned the word "frump." Dad built it and before I reached an age where I used it for homework I used it to build the model airplanes and then the model cars I had always liked.

I gave myself a few seconds to feel nostalgic and miss him, and then opened my laptop, and set to putting the finishing touches on a paper I was writing for my

Business Economics

class. The paper was on the "price elasticity of demand" if you care although why anyone not taking that class would care is kind of beyond me.

So I plugged away, figuring changes in demand, and changes in price, converting them to percentage expressions and reducing them to a formula until I got sleepy and then just laid back for my afternoon nap.

Yeah, I'm one of those guys and like my nap.

I woke to one of my favorite sensations in the world - my back was being tickled.

"I'll give you exactly 22 minutes to stop that," I said, not moving, my head turned away from her, my cheek on the pillow.

I felt the bed bounce a little as she crawled in beside me and then those educated fingers were busy at my back again.

God, it felt good. I could feel my skin tighten into goosebumps as her fingertips traced my shoulder blades and then my spine.

My erection was as involuntary as my breathing or my heartbeat.

When her finger traced the line of the elastic waistband of my shorts and then the shape of my ass, I lifted my head and faced her.

"Mom," I said, softly, meeting her eyes, "what are you doing?"

She jerked her hand away and blushed the brightest red blush I ever saw.

"Oh, Honey, I'm sorry," she said, "I just got carried away."

I smiled, rolled up, and kissed her, trying for one of those not-quite-son-to-mother kisses she was so adept at.

"I'm flattered," I said.

She giggled and said, "You told me to wake you at five o'clock."

"Okay," I said, rolling out of bed, "You go find something to wear you think I might like and I'll take a shower."

She left and I went into the shower.

As I washed my body my erection slowly wilted, but my mind was racing.

"Will," I thought to myself, "she's your mother. Now stop your nasty thoughts."

"Will," I replied to myself, and I realized I had said it aloud, "She's lonesome, that's all."

"Will," I said, "that was a sexual approach and you know it."

"Will," I replied, but I wound down. I couldn't think of anything to say to that.

"Will," I said at last to myself, "are you going to move out?"

"No," I replied to myself.

"Will," I said to myself again, "then you need to make a decision."

"Right now?" I asked myself.

"No," I said, finishing the conversation, "not right now."

I finished my shower and started drying.

"But soon," I said, in closing.

So I dried, looked in the mirror as I brushed my teeth, touched up my goatee, and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

In my college student's date night uniform - clean cargo pants, a button-down Oxford cloth shirt, brightly patterned socks, and black loafers - I headed to her bedroom.

She looked good.

Okay, she looked DAMN good.

Her makeup was perfect, those tiny lines that circle her eyes had disappeared, and the makeup on her eyes gave her a slightly exotic look. Her mouth was a perfect cupid's bow in a VERY bright red. I can't say for certain that she did some sort of makeup to that soft extra chin hanging below her jaw, but it seemed smoother this evening.

"I bought this as sort of an anniversary present for your father a few years ago. I'm pretty sure it'll still fit if you help with the zipper," she said, holding out a long, flat box.

Curious, I opened the box. Inside was a garment, bright yellow, and when I touched it it was a soft material. Not that I'm an expert on women's clothing, but the word "Jersey" came to mind as I felt it.

I lifted it out of the box and chuckled.

"A cheerleader's uniform?" I asked.

She giggled and blushed. "Something like that," she said.

I held it up, grinned, and said, "Oh yeah, this'll do."

"Well," she said, the blush spreading and fading but still there, "if you can stand seeing your old Mom half naked, I'll need your help with this."

She handed me the thing lying on the bed.

I held it up and immediately recognized it as a long-line, strapless bra.

I smiled and an interesting set of images streaked through my mind, quick as hummingbirds, just there for a part of a second and then gone as quickly. There was Margie, a girl I dated, and bedded, for a while who had favored that kind of bra. There were my fingers working on the dozen little hooks that held the damn thing on. Suddenly, there were soft rolls of fat white skin bulging from the top and bottom of the thing and I realized it was Mom's skin.

It was one hell of a garment. I imagined it must have been special-ordered to handle Mom's boobs. I couldn't resist peeking and the tag said 48JJ. The part that would wrap around her body was a clean foot and a half long, and the complicated underwire supports were embedded in a very white, lacy material.

"Okay, shirt off," I said, smiling.

She giggled just a little and did that two-arms-crossed-in-front thing only a woman can pull off, but that

any

woman can pull off whether she weighs 90 pounds or 290, and peeled off her T-shirt.

I suppose I had realized that she had no bra on. This was one of her "around-the-house" T-shirts and she had cut the neck with scissors, just a cut to keep it from being too tight around her third chin. If I had thought about it I would have realized she had thrown it on after doing her makeup just so she wouldn't be, well, topless.

Okay, I looked. I looked every time I had the chance. Those immense breasts, lying on her belly, had that effect on me. They were pale, and blue-veined, with a couple of raised veins that seemed to feed very small areolas and nipples.

I turned her around, wrapped the bra around her, pulled it to me, and got the first two hooks hooked before I worked it up and then adjusted her breasts to lay on the underwire framework, not so much supported as displayed.

I got the remaining dozen hooks hooked, there were a total of 14 by my actual count, and then gave the bra a few twists to get everything centered and her breasts pointing the right way.

"Thanks, Honey," she said, "now shoo while mom finishes getting dressed."

So I shooed. I went into the front room and started killing evil mechs in my

Titanfall II

game.

"Well," she said from the doorway, breaking my concentration.

"Oh myyyyyyyyyyyyy," I said, theatrically letting my controller drop, leaving my teammates to their own devices as I stood and walked to her.

"You look absolutely gorgeous," I said.

And she did.

The yellow outfit, the word "costume" was in my mind, set off her oversized figure perfectly. At her throat, the bright yellow turtleneck seemed to be more a collar than part of the garment. Below the turtleneck, it opened up, a trapezoidal opening that put about a foot of cleavage on display. It was sleeveless except for a fine spaghetti strap that connected the shoulder of the garment to the elbow-length fingerless gloves she wore, leaving those big soft pads of fat at the back of her arms free to be seen and to wobble with each move.

The bodice of the garment fit so tightly you could see the line where flesh bulged where it was tight at where her waist had once been. It clung to her body and the short, pleated skirt was just long enough that if she stood still she was, well, "modest," but when she moved at all the darker tops of her light tan nylons showed along with the little keyhole shaped wires and buttons that held them to the garter belt she wore. She spun, showing that odd grace she showed sometimes, and I could see the white garter belt and very white French-cut panties she wore.

On her feet, yellow high heels, not full-on six-inch stilettos, but four-inch open-toed heels with ankle straps, what the girls at college called "fuck me shoes." looked good. I had never seen her in heels and these brought her to a little over five feet tall.

"I look like a whore," she said, "but your dad liked it and, well, I kinda do too." She blushed a little with that last.

"Welllll," I said, grinning as I took her hand and started for the door, "if I'm asked, which is it? A cheap whore for rent for an hour, or are you a high-priced call girl?"

She giggled at that.

"Honey, I'm many things," she said, "but cheap ain't among them."

"All right, then," I said, as I waited while she carefully locked the door when we left the house, "$5,000 for the night it is."

"That much?" she asked.

"Hey," I said, grinning, "prime costs."

"Welllllll," she said, drawing the final consonant out, "if the Man of the House says it, it must be true."

I laughed, opened the car door for her, helped her in, and then we were off.

I had reservations at

Al's Supper Club

for seven o'clock so we were right on time.

Al's was an old-fashioned "supper club." Besides excellent steaks and seafood, the tables fronted on a medium-sized dance floor with a raised stage at the other side. It looked like a scene out of a movie from the 1950s. It was my first time here and I loved the place.

"God," she said, giggling across the hubcap-sized table at me, "I feel more naked than I would if I didn't have any clothes on."

I reached across the table and touched the back of her hand.

"You look amazing," I said, "and I won't take one dime less than $5,000 for the night."

"Oh, God," she moaned and blushed again, quite prettily.

We ate, no

petit

filet for Mom, she had the full ribeye with loaded baked potato, the house salad, and a double screwdriver. I had the steak, french fries, the house salad, and a pitcher of beer.

After dinner, no dessert for me but I did stab a few bites from her Death By Chocolate Lava Cake, the busboy cleared the table and we scooted the chairs around to face the dance floor and the stage. The house band, something called

Local Boys Make Good

, was pretty good. They had a female lead singer who reminded me of Mama Cass but sang more like Janis Joplin, a lead guitar player who had a good touch on his Stratocaster, a rhythm player working his Les Paul hard, a bass player with a Paul McCartney violin bass, and a drummer on the kit who could keep a solid beat.

When the lead singer started on

Summertime

, her voice doing a passable run to get the song started, I stood, took Mom's hand, and led her to the dance floor. We weren't the only couple dancing or I probably wouldn't have done that, but we danced well together. She taught me before my first junior high school dance and we had practiced from time to time since.

We danced through

Summertime

in the classic slow dance position, her right hand in my left, her left hand on my shoulder while my right rested on her hip.

I could have kissed the singer when the band slid seamlessly into

Moonlight in Vermont

. We danced, nothing fancy but a solid box step, through that.

The nice, slow

Moonlight in Vermont

was just ending, the final chord still ringing, when the lead player hit those that series of double stops that started

Johnny B. Goode

. Mom started to head for the table but I caught her and spun her into a

Jive

dance. The look on her face when she spun back, her hand laying on my chest and her head thrown back in a laugh of pure joy made me think of Jennifer Grey as Patrick Swayze spun her back in the final dance from

Dirty Dancing

.

By the time we finished that dance, I knew she was done. Her hair was damp with sweat and I could see dark circles at her armpits. I was pretty sure her bra was damp and if she didn't have it on she would have similar dark lines down her back and between her breasts. She was breathless and smiling as I walked her back to the table and seated her.