It's such a beautiful day but I'm far too nervous to appreciate it. No, my mind is on other things. I drop my phone back into my pocket and pull out my keys. My stomach drops for a second but then I spot it, tucked under my dorm room key and the car key — my old house key.
Opening the door to my childhood home still feels exactly the same and I draw in a deep breath. Someone is cooking vegetables but just underneath that is the welcoming scent of safety and love. I take off my shoes and shut the door a little more forcefully than strictly necessary.
"Brian?" Mom calls out my dad's name from the kitchen.
The kitchen is the central hub of the downstairs, connected right to the entrance hallway. As I enter, the aroma of chicken adds to the mix. My mouth waters but I'm not hungry. Not for food, anyway.
There she is, beautiful as ever. April, my mom. Thirty-eight — no, thirty-nine as of today, and, by my estimate at least, in the prime of her life. She has a warm, round face, and blue eyes. Her normally straight, dirty-blonde hair is messy, as if she just got out of bed. She's wearing her favorite dress, a dizzyingly colorful floral print fabric with a lot of greens and purples.
The dress hangs loosely on her body as if she stood there completely naked and it just happened to fall on top of her. Her wonderful breasts — big and round — hang free and unencumbered by fabric. No bra? Just my luck. The kitchen is quite warm and beads of sweat have formed on her bosom.
Do I also need to mention that it is my favorite dress? Mom looks terrific, like Venus herself on a lazy Saturday morning. Spatula in one hand, she stands at the kitchen island making what looks like fried rice with chicken.
As soon as she sees me, Mom startles and her eyes go wide. She tugs at the strap of her dress, carefully rearranging it to not expose quite as much.
"Myles!" she gasps. "What are you doing here?"
"What? I can't wish my own mother a happy birthday?" I say, smile, and approach her.
"Of course you can," she says.
I open my arms for a hug and she puts down the spatula before turning toward me. Her lips are pressed together and she looks flustered but she musters a smile for me.
The hug is wonderful. I can smell sweat and something else. An earthy, musky odor. Being nearly a foot taller than her, her breasts press into my abdomen and I pull her closer.
"Happy birthday, Mom," I whisper.
"Thank you," she says.
Eager to pull away again, I let her disengage. She tugs consciously at her dress again, which is very unlike her. Normally she's the picture of confidence.
"Sorry about the mess, I didn't really expect anyone to visit," she apologizes.
"Oh, my bad," I say. "I guess I should have called or something."
I move around the kitchen island, standing on the other side of the range, and pinch a piece of chicken from the pan. Very spicy, Mom likes her heat. I lean against the counter and put my hand in my pocket.
"No, no, don't apologize. You're always welcome, it's just been a weird—" Suddenly Mom jerks upright and her eyes go wide again. "—day," she finishes with a squeak.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Mom says and nods. "Are you hungry? Why don't you set the table, I'm almost done."
"Sure."
The plates are still in the same drawer as ever. I grab two, more out of politeness than a desire to eat, and open the silverware drawer. Glancing sideways, I can see Mom stirring the pan with one hand and tightly gripping the edge of the counter with her other. Her knuckles have turned white.
"Are you sure everything is alright?" I ask again.
"Yup," Mom manages to squeeze out but it sounds almost like a cry of pain.
I set the table for two and when I turn around, Mom seems to have recovered. She's taking deep but steady, relaxed breaths. She runs her left hand through her hair and wipes away a few drops of sweat.
"No cake this year?" I ask.
"I was gonna buy one this morning but... I forgot," she says as if she just realized it for the first time.
"Hey, it's your birthday, you can spend it however you want," I chuckle and return to my position at the kitchen island. "Speaking of, what are your plans for the day? I thought that since I can't be here for the party on the weekend, I could at least hang out with you today."
Mom's head snaps up and she looks at me with narrowed eyes, trying to search my face. She's been distracted so far but finally, she picks up a scent of something suspicious. She hasn't completely forgotten what day it is.
"Why? What do you have planned?" she asks.
It's something of a family tradition. You see, Mom was born on April Fools, and to make matters worse, her parents thought it was the funniest thing in the world to name her April. She had no choice, her lot in life was to either accept that or fight a constant battle. She chose to accept her fate to the delight of my grandparents, who taught her all the tricks of the trade. She passed that gene down to me and, even though I was born in August, our birthdays have become prank days.
Over the years, we have come up with two rules to make sure our pranks never go too far. One, nothing cruel, and nobody gets hurt. Two, if the pranked person doesn't end up laughing, it wasn't a good prank and you owe them a big favor. No destruction of property and if you make a big mess, you clean it up afterward.
"Planned? For what?" I feign innocence.
"You know what," she says and puts her hands on her hips in a menacing manner.
"Now that you're forty years old—"
"Thirty-nine!"
"—maybe we're getting too old for this kind of stuff."
Mom's upper lip twitches.
"It's okay, bring your best shot. I'm ready."
"I don't know. Maybe today isn't the right day, you look a little sick. Are you coming down with something? Maybe it's better if I go."
I put my hand in my pocket and turn as if to leave.
"I'm not sick, I'm—ohhhhh," she moans.
Mom stands up stiffly and her eyes go out of focus for a second. She swallows but doesn't move.
"Really, Mom, are you okay?" I ask and approach her.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she squeaks in an oddly high-pitched tone of voice.
"Are you sure?" I ask and put a hand on her shoulder.
"Y-yeah," she stammers. "I'm fine!"
Mom tries to take a step forward but loses balance. She clutches at the nearest thing for support, which happens to be my forearm. She's as light as a feather and I pull her closer, wrapping my other arm around her.
"Not now," she whispers. "Please, not now."
"Not now what?"
"Noth—ohhhhh," she moans and tries to push me away.
Taking a stumbling step toward the counter, she turns off the heat and then braces herself. Her head falls forward and her hair follows suit. She's clenching her legs together but it seems the worst has already passed.
"I'm okay," she says quickly. "I'm okay."
"Are you sure about that?" I ask and reach into my pocket.
I should confess that I haven't been entirely straightforward so far. I know exactly what's wrong with Mom.
You see, this morning when she woke up and Dad already left for the office, she got out of bed, yawned, and saw a package lying at the foot of her bed. Curious, she opened it and once she saw what was inside, her jaw dropped.
Dad isn't too keen on being involved in pranks. Not recently, at least. There was a time when we were all as tight-knit as could be but that time has passed and my parents have been distant for some time. I think they stay together out of habit more than love.
So when she saw the note, written in handwriting that looked just like the writing in all those love letters he had written her when they were young, she felt a spark of excitement inside her. "I dare you to wear this for the rest of the day and let a stranger's touch give you everything that your husband doesn't."
Underneath the note was what looked like a pair of panties at first — black and a modest cut. It was heavier than it should have been, though, and when she pulled out she saw that on the inside were two attachments. A five-inch long, three-inch diameter prod for the front, and a little bit smaller one for the back.
I had no idea if she decided to actually wear it until I saw her in the kitchen and I knew that she'd been wearing it non-stop. It was not, as implied, from Dad at all, nor was it a simple dildo. It's the latest in teledildonics, a remote-controlled pair of panties. I've been turning it on and off randomly all morning, picking up the intensity as the day went on.
I know, you must be thinking that it's a really sick weird and sick prank to play on your own mother and you'd be wrong. It's not a prank at all. It's the culmination of all my fantasies. Moving out of home and into a dorm room was what made me realize just how much I missed my mother. How hot she is compared to other women. How hard my cock gets when I think about her.
Two semesters worth of daily dreams about all the dirty deeds I want to do to her and when an opportunity presented itself, I seized it. One touch of my finger and I can make the toy inside of her vibrate.
"Everything's fine," she says and takes a deep breath.
I reach into my pocket and press the button that starts a pre-programmed routine that I titled "the finisher." Up until now, all the presets I've used have only activated the front vibrator. Mom has no idea that the one in her ass also does something special.
"Oh, God," Mom gasps loudly as the butt plug begins to pulsate.
The program starts slowly at first, building up the intensity. Mom looks around frantically, trying to look for an escape. She takes a step forward but it's too late. I'm there to catch her and she flings her arms around me for support.
The buzzing of the vibrator is loud enough that I can hear it. Mom's body trembles.
"I'm sorry," she mutters. "I'm—ohhhhh, ohhhhh!"
Mom throws her head back. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open. She leans to the side and her hand looks up to grab her breast. Her nipple is hard and she pinches it through the fabric. It was only a guess before but it is confirmed now. She's not wearing a bra.
