Dad's Private Collection

My dad's hobby was woodworking. For most of his adult life he was a school teacher at Inglewood Middle School. When he was forty he was promoted to Principal. Dad seemed happy with the new job, but said it was stressful. I guess that's why he took up the hobby of woodworking.

Attached to our two-car garage was a room about fifteen feet wide and as long as the garage. It was a perfect place for my father to pursue his hobby. A counter about twelve feet long ran along the wall to the right when you walked in. Above that was a shelf. Dad had bolted a small belt sander and a vice to the wooden counter. Fluorescent lights hung above it. He also had a table saw a few feet in front of the door. Pine boards and plywood leaned against the wall in front of the table saw. Every weekend and some evenings my father would go out to his wood shop There, he turned those pieces of ordinary wood into cute bird houses and bird feeders, or sometimes a bookcase or a table. These he would often give away to family and friends as gifts. Once, for Mom's birthday, he made her a jewellery box out of mahogany. Dad loved his hobby. Sometimes I think he enjoyed the process more than the finished product itself. It was his way of relieving stress. It seemed to help, but not enough. When I was nineteen my father suffered a massive coronary in October. He died before the ambulance arrived at the hospital with him.

As you can imagine, my mother and I were devastated by the loss of my father. He was a great person. A loving father and, according to Mom, near perfect husband. And only forty-five. His death left my mother and me to somehow muddle along. There we were: an orphan at nineteen and a widow at forty-three. Dad had a good life insurance policy, so we had no financial worries. But all the money in the world would be no substitute for him.

In August, the summer after my father died, Mom decided that it was time to clean out his wood shop "Richard, sometime, when you get a chance, maybe you should tidy the place up," she said. "I was thinking we could sell some of his tools. We don't need the table saw or sander. I think there are a few birdhouses in there that he finished before..." Her voiced began to fade and tears pooled in her blue eyes.

I felt a lump in my throat as I looked over at my mother. She was on the couch in the living room, adjacent to the chair I was in. We had been watching television when she made her suggestion during a commercial. She reached up to wipe her eyes, then ran a hand through her black hair.

"Yeah, I can do it this weekend," I told her. It was a Friday night and I had no plans for the next two days.

Mom's mouth was a tight slit now, lips quivering. A tear ran down her cheek. I had also done my share of crying over my father's death, but always behind my closed bedroom door. Dad had raised me to believe that boys don't cry. We had to be strong. Stoic. But I like to think that if it were me lying in the ground rather than him, he too would cry. I bit the side of my lower lip and walked over to Mom.

She was sniffling and wiping her bloodshot eyes. She looked up, seeming embarrassed by her weeping. Her sorrow was obvious on her face. I sat down beside her and rested a hand on her left shoulder. Her raven hair brushed over the back of my hand and I was surprised by how soft it felt. It tickled my skin. Mom turned her head towards me. She tried to smile, but couldn't. Instead, she crumpled against me and began sobbing into my chest. I put my arms around her and she clutched me like a drowning man holding onto a life preserver. She quaked against me, wetting my t-shirt with her tears.

After a few minutes Mom straightened her back and brushed away strands of hair that were clinging to her wet cheek. Her eyes met mine, blue and shiny with tears. She kissed my cheek, then rubbed it, wiping away her lipstick. A faint laugh escaped her mouth.

"I'd be so lost without you, Richard," she said in a shaky voice. "You're all I've got now."

I nodded, knowing how she felt, or at least as best I could. Losing your husband was not the same as losing your father. The pain is different, although just as real for each person. "You're all I've got too, Mom," I said. I ran my hand up and down her back, trying to comfort her.

Mom heaved and sighed in ragged breaths. She wiped her teary eyes once more, then raised them to meet mine. Her expression had changed now. In her eyes I could see her love for me. I smiled and kissed her rosy cheek, hoping she'd realize how much I loved her too. Her skin felt warm and damp with tears against my lips. Mom rested against my chest once more, sliding her arms around my waist. I could feel her hand running up and down my spine. That's when it all changed for me.

While holding my mother on the couch a flood of sensations rushed through me. I could smell the scents of her perfume and shampoo. Her silky hair was teasing the side of my face and neck. Her hand was still moving over my back and it was very soothing. I let myself relax as my right hand slid up her back, over the strap of her bra beneath her blouse and towards her shoulders. She moved, holding me tighter.

It was then that I was very aware of how her breasts were pressed to me. They felt firm and large as they rubbed over my chest. I had noticed them before, perhaps in an inappropriate way, but only by sight. This was the first time that I was aware, very aware, of how nice they felt pressed to me. Her bra had pushed them into two round orbs, accentuating their size. I glanced down. The top three buttons of my mother's rose-coloured blouse were undone and in the V-shaped opening I could see her deep cleavage. Her firm mounds rose and fell with her laboured breathing. Her skin was as smooth as polished marble and slightly tanned from the sun. A few small freckles dotted it. A mixture of guilt and shame nearly overwhelmed me, but those were quickly replaced by lust and arousal. I could feel my cock harden inside my jeans as I grew more turned-on. Seconds later it was pushing up at the zipper. I twisted, hoping to hide my shameful condition.

"I just miss him so much," Mom sighed. "I knew I'd never get over losing Henry, but I had hoped that it would be easier by now. Some days it feels like yesterday though."

"I know. I feel the same," I told her.

Mom straightened her back and leaned away from me a little. Her left hand slid around to hold my right one. I gave her hand a soft squeeze. Beneath her soft skin I could feel the slender bones with my thumb. They felt so delicate and reminded me of how frail we really are. She gave my hand a squeeze and I looked down at her wedding and engagement rings on her finger. She hadn't stopped wearing them since Dad died. I wondered if she might and somehow found it comforting that she hadn't. Perhaps she did too. Maybe it was her way of trying to fool herself into believing he wasn't really gone. Her blue eyes moved down my chest and she wiped tears from them again with the heel of her hand. When I noticed her gaze linger on the bulge in my jeans I felt panicky. My pulse quickened and sweat formed on my palms. I think I noticed a faint smile appear on her face, just for a moment, then it was gone. She looked back up at me.

"I'll clean the wood shop out tomorrow," I said. I was desperate for something to say to interrupt the silence.

"That will be fine. There's no rush," she said. "I was just thinking it should be done sometime. There's no need to hang on to all that stuff. But if there's anything at all that you want, keep it."

"Okay. I'll see what there is. Some of the tools might come in handy," I told her.

My mother nodded in agreement, but never spoke. She seemed thoughtful. That was understandable, but in the back of my mind I worried that she had noticed my erection trying to burst from my jeans. When my eyes left hers and moved down to the front of her blouse I saw the noticeable bumps that her hard nipples made. They stood out from the swell of her breasts, making two nearly fingertip-sized protrusions in the material. Without even realizing it at first, I licked my lips, fighting the urge to pinch one of her hard nubs between my fingers.

"I'm going to make some hot chocolate before bed. Want some?"

Mom had gotten up from the couch and was standing in front of me. I looked up, past her hard nipples to her face. Her cheeks were still pink, but now I wondered if it was from crying or the flush of arousal. I shook my head. "No, thanks," I told her.

I could hear the sound of a cupboard door closing in the kitchen, then water running and the whur of the microwave. I was glad for a few minutes alone to calm down and wrestle with my forbidden thoughts about her. When I heard three loud beeps, then the microwave door close, my heart beat faster.

Mom sat back down on the couch. She slipped her shoes off and tucked her bare feet under her, curling up on her left hip beside me. She was cupping the mug of hot chocolate in her hands and blowing into it to cool it's contents. Steam rose from it. Hot, like the blood filling my cock. Her pursed lips glistened with red lipstick and wild thoughts filled my mind. I forced my eyes from her seductive mouth and they settled on the curves of her hip and ass. Her black skirt was stretched tight over her, emphasizing the contours of her body down as far as her bare knees and calves. I folded my arms over my lap to cover my erection.

When Mom decided that it was time for her to go to bed I was somewhat relieved. I wanted time alone to think -- to try to sort out my feelings. "Okay, have a good night, Mom," I said. "And wake me up when you get up so I can get started on the wood shop"

"Okay, I will," she said. "You have a good night too. I love you, Honey." She bent down to kiss my cheek and her breasts swayed gently inside her blouse. Then her cleavage was inches from my face for a few moments.

"I love you too, Mom," I said in an unusually thick voice.

After I heard her close her bedroom door I grappled with the taboo thoughts and emotions that I'd had earlier. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get the sensations of her body against mine out of my head. The image of her ample cleavage flashed in my mind. I imagined slipping my hand inside her blouse to fondle her. In frustration, I turned the television off and went up to my bedroom to masturbate.

###

The next morning I was woken by the sound of my mother's dulcet voice calling my name. At first seemed like a dream. I smiled and shifted my hips, feeling my cock stiffen as I recalled the previous night. Then I opened my eyes and saw her standing a few feet from my bed. She was wearing a pink fleece housecoat and her damp hair hung limply over her shoulders. She smiled.

"You said to wake you up. Remember?"

"Yeah," I groaned, raising up on my right elbow to look at her. The blanket covering me had moved down to my hips while I slept. I was wearing a t-shirt and boxers, but still felt somewhat exposed -- especially with my hard cock tenting my underwear. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.

"Want me to let you sleep a while longer?" she asked.

"No, that's okay. I want to get an early start on the wood shop," I told her.

A bittersweet smile appeared on Mom's pretty face as she looked down at me. "If you'd rather not -- I mean, if it bothers you, I could get someone else to do it," she offered.

I gave my head a gentle shake. "No, I'd rather do it myself than have someone else do it. Besides, they wouldn't know what to keep."

Mom nodded in agreement, then sat down on my bed. She rested her hand on my back, just below my shoulder blades. The bottom half of her robe slipped open a bit, exposing part of her smooth left thigh. My eyes went to it, then roamed up her body. Her breasts hung down slightly, filling out the front of her robe. Through the pink fleece I noticed the outlines of her nipples, teased to stiffness by the soft material covering them. My cock twitched. My senses felt overloaded by the sight of her and the feel of her warm hand gently resting on my back.

"Okay. Thanks, Honey," She ran her hand through my tangled hair and bent down to kiss my cheek.

As my mother leaned closer to press her lips to my cheek she shifted her hips to the right. It wasn't much, but enough for me to feel her firm rump pressing against my erection. Instinct told me to press against her harder, but I somehow managed to ease away. It was too late though. Her eyes widened and she raised her head, jerking it towards her right briefly, then back to me. She smiled. It was a teasing smile that I found sexy, which turned me on even more. She giggled.

"Well, at least part of you is awake," she teased.

I frowned, feeling my face growing hot. I tugged at the blanket, trying to avoid her foxy grin.

She immediately recognized my discomfort and gave my back a soothing rub, still smiling. "Oh, don't be so bashful," she said. "It's not like I didn't know you had one of those things down there." She let out that sexy giggle again and my cock twitched in response. "And if you're anything like your father, it's awake before you are. He used to call it 'morning wood'."

I blushed harder now. My hand was clenched in a fist, holding the blanket. I heard a nervous laugh leave my mouth.

Mom got up from my bed, taking a quick glance back down towards my hips. There was a slight lump in the blanket now. "I've finished in the bathroom, so it's all yours. I'm going down to make us breakfast," she said.

"Okay, thanks, Mom," I croaked. My erection pulsed in rhythm to my beating heart.

The hot water from the shower helped to wake me up. I stood under it, stroking my cock with a soapy hand, thinking about Mom. I came with a loud grunt and braced a hand against the tiled wall, watching my cum being washed down the drain by the swirling water.

The smell of bacon frying hit me even before I entered the kitchen. It made me hungry. Mom was at the stove, still in her housecoat, with a spatula in her hand. She turned and smiled as I approached.

"Have a good shower?" she asked. There seemed to be an undercurrent of innuendo in her voice, but I ignored it.

"Yeah. Now I'm starving," I said as I sat down. On the table was an empty plate that she had put out for me between a knife and fork.

Mom brought the frying pan over and scooped out a heap of scrambled eggs and crispy bacon onto the plate. "I'm glad you're hungry because I made a big breakfast. I thought you'd want to eat well if you're going to be working," she said.

I looked up at her with an appreciative smile. "Thanks, Mom," I said.

Mom sat across from me, finishing her breakfast. Occasionally she glanced up at me but said nothing. I could feel her eyes on me as I chewed my food and wondered what she was thinking. I ate quickly. Both because I was hungry and I felt nervous. She had begun washing the breakfast dishes by the time I went out to Dad's old wood shop

The padlock to the wood shop door opened with a click and I stepped inside. Instantly the smell of pine, sawdust and stale tobacco smoke hit my nostrils. Melancholia filled me as I recalled the times I had been in there while Dad was assembling a bird house or table. I looked around, feeling a lump in my throat. It was though time had frozen in the wood shop All of his tools were where resting where he had left them, like they were waiting for my father's hands to pick them up or flip their switch.

There was a small pile of sawdust in the corner to my left, probably swept up by Dad the day before his heart attack. On the counter there was a half-finished bird feeder. Beside that was a paintbrush, now dry and brittle, sitting in a can that once contained paint thinner. A can of green paint sat beside that. A few pieces of plywood and dowels lay beside a bottle of white glue. I wiped the palm of my hand over my right eye and reached for the cord hanging from the fluorescent light. On the shelf above the counter was a white plastic radio, now yellowed and covered with a fine later of sawdust. An ashtray with a heap of butts sat beside that. I gave my head an amused shake, thinking it was probably a miracle that Dad never burned the place down with a cigarette years ago.

After surveying the shop I concluded that there really wasn't much worth keeping. Maybe just a few finished birdhouses and some hand tools. The table saw and belt sander could be sold, as Mom had suggested. She would probably place an ad in the local newspaper for that purpose. I decided to save a few chisels, hammers, a square and a hand saw -- more out of sentimentality than any real need for them. There were also a couple of finished bird houses and feeders that I wanted as mementos; Mom would too, I knew. I had thought that I was done with my mental inventory when I noticed a large wooden toolbox on the floor beneath the counter. I recognized it as being another one of my father's creations.

I lifted the heavy toolbox by it's brass handles on each side and placed it on the counter. A thick layer of sawdust covered the top. I flipped the clasp and opened the lid. Inside, I found a circular saw. That could come in handy and I decided to keep it. Beside the saw was an electric drill and bits-- another useful tool. Beneath these items I noticed a stack of magazines. Probably woodworking magazines with patterns and designs for birdhouses and feeders, I thought. I removed the saw and drill and placed them on the counter.

When I began pulling the magazines out, shock and surprise overcame me and I let out a loud laugh. Rather than being woodworking magazines, they were copies of Penthouse, Hustler and Playboy. There must have been six or eight of them. Good for a different kind of wood, I mused silently. I decided that it was best to not tell Mom about Dad's stash of porn. I could come back another day when she wasn't home and remove them. Then as I pulled the last magazine from the wooden box I discovered something that changed my life forever.

Lying at the bottom of the toolbox was a yellow envelope about eight inches long and half as wide. It was covered with a fine coat of dust and tattered at the corners. Curiosity filled me as I reached inside to remove it's contents. But nothing could have prepared me for what I discovered. From the envelope I pulled out a stack of Polaroid photographs. I let out a gasp when I saw that they were pictures of Mom.

My cock began to stiffen as I flipped through the photos one by one. There were a dozen in all. Most were rather tame -- just my mother posing seductively on the bed, wearing a white lacy neglige. It left half of her thighs uncovered and was cut deep in the front, leaving most of her breasts exposed. The outlines of her nipples were inches from the edges of the white lace covering them. Through it I could see the faint outlines of her dusky areolas. They appeared to be a few inches in diameter, surrounding her thick nipples. I could tell from her hair style that the pictures were probably about ten years old. My heart was pounding and my cock throbbing as I sorted through the pictures, eager to see more.

In some of the photos Mom had pulled her negligee open wide to reveal her breasts. They stood out from her, hanging slightly towards her flat stomach. In one she was cupping them in her hands, wearing a seductive smile on her face. Her oak-coloured nipples were thick and long, as though she, or more likely, Dad, had been playing with them. In other photos she was on her hands and knees. Her round ass, covered by white lacy panties, pointed at the camera while her heavy breasts hung towards the bed. She was looking back with that same sexy smile. It was no wonder Dad was attracted to her. I stared at the photos of my half-naked mother and rubbed my hard shaft through my jeans. My heart was beating so fast I was afraid it might explode. I gave a nervous glance back towards the door, now worried that Mom might come in to see how I was doing or offer to help.