"That was mom. She says she's coming to pick you up tomorrow." The words didn't register at first.
"Pick me up?" I shifted in my seat.
Robin nodded and bit her lower lip. "Yeah. She sounded...calm. I'm not sure what to make of it." Robin looked away and then looked back at me. "It's been ten days. Laura is back at school. Mom's always been a process thinker. Maybe it's just time."
I wasn't really sure what to make of it. On some level I understood I'd eventually have to go home; I knew living with Robin wasn't a long term option. This just seemed soon. All of the real world stuff started occurring to me now. I had missed two weeks at work with almost no explanation. Did I still have my job? I was out of pot. Did I have any money lying around so I could buy some? What the hell was Dad going to say? Was Mom likely to forgive me? Would she want to have a "talk"? I even considered going to school to escape all of it.
I took a deep breath and decided that my mother was going to just leave things alone. That seemed like her. Just move on and never discuss any of what happened. It was the WASP thing to do.
* * * * *
I didn't sleep well at all. Neither did Robin. Despite sharing the bed, it felt like we were complete strangers. We weren't intimate at all. I think Robin was putting a little distance between us to make the morning easier. Mom was coming by at 10:00. I got up earlier than normal; showered, packed what few things I had, and sat in the living room and read a Canadian novel about a dysfunctional East Coast family.
Robin stayed in her bedroom until the door buzzer rang. She came out in sweats and a pony tail, looking what appeared to be a practiced dishevelled. She forced a smile. "Mom's here."
"Yep," I sighed. I stood and walked over to the door. We were about a foot apart. "Thanks for everything, Robin."
"You're my brother," she said softly and then looked over at the door to cue our mother's knock.
I opened the door and Mom looked me up and down as though she was searching for something. She stood with her shoulders slightly slumped and held her purse by its straps so that it almost touched the ground. Her raincoat was undone, and underneath she wore a salmon blouse and brown patterned slacks. She wore sensible brown flats. She looked like an upper middle class mom, which was what she was. I looked like I didn't belong with her. She took a breath and stood up straighter. I tried not to notice how her raincoat opened around her impressive chest. "Ready?" was all she said. I nodded and stepped out of Robin's apartment.
"Thank you, honey," she said to my sister. I started to walk to the stairs that led down to the street. I couldn't hear Robin's reply.
* * * * *
The drive was, as I expected, quiet. The only comment out of my mother was in reply to the radio when the traffic report indicated an accident near the airport. "Just missed that," she observed.
We arrived home and it was lightly drizzling. I followed my mother into the house like I was expecting a firing galley. But the house was quiet and warm and waiting for us. My mother shed her coat and ran her hands through her hair. "Your father should be back early next week." I looked around in reply like I was just fully grasping the emptiness of the house.
"Work?" I asked rather dully.
"Yep," she nodded back at me. "They like flying your father all over the place."
That was true, I thought to myself. He'd become the fire-fighter –slash-problem solver at his office. They valued him enough to send him all over the world and he was by all accounts quite good at his job. I suppose in my self-indulgent haze I hadn't noticed how often he'd been gone the past few years.
"Anyway," my mother sighed, "I figured you should be home and we could just get past everything." I looked over at her with what I'm sure was a blank expression. "I didn't tell him about anything and I knew we'd be awkward around each other after what happened, so it's good that we can get that out of the way before he gets back." She was speaking quickly.
I barely whispered agreement before I started looking around like I was searching for an exit.
"Why don't you go up to your room and get settled? Call the gas station and see if they have any shifts for you."
I did just that. Back to normal, as my mother wanted. She was a woman used to getting things the way she wanted them.
* * * * *
I didn't hear from either of my sisters the first few days, and I didn't reach out to them either. Mom was home whenever I was home, so I presumed she ran all of her errands when I was at work. I don't know if she thought I was going to start fucking more family members somehow and that by being home she was preventing it, but I got the feeling that I was being guarded. By about the fourth day, things did seem kind of normal. I was pumping gas, reading a lot of books, barely talking to anyone but – surprisingly – sober. I didn't buy any pot, and in fact hadn't even considered it. Perhaps, as a result, I was perpetually being woken by what was starting to feeling like a 10-inch erection. As some sort of self-inflicted penance I avoided masturbating. It wasn't until the afternoon of that fourth day that things reached a tipping point.
I came home from work, showered, and went to my room to change into clean clothes. Except there weren't any; I hadn't done laundry. I went down to the laundry room hoping against hope that maybe my mother had taken pity on me and washed some of my clothes. When I got down there I discovered that there was, in fact, laundry being done and it appeared to be mine. There was a load of whites in the dryer and a load of my darks in the washer. Waiting to go into the washer after my stuff were my mother's delicates. I don't know what came over me, but I started sifting through them. Her bras were functional, yet still quite pretty. She had a number of different satin jewel tones, some full coverage, some demi-cups. There were some cotton under things that I suppose went with her workout gear, and a lot of panties that matched the dressier bras. I guess she spent good money on them, as the tags were often in French. "90G" read the European tags; "34F" declared the American bras. I picked up a pair of red satin panties and held them up to my nose. I breathed in the scent of my mother, my heart pounding in my chest, my cock now throbbing against the cabinet in front of me, nearly pushing the towel around my waist open. I heard a creak on the stair behind me and quickly dropped the underwear back into the pile. As I turned around I was relieved to see my mother wasn't standing on the stairs watching me, and decided I must have imagined the sound. I opened the dryer and pulled out some mostly dry boxer briefs. I went back up to my room to put them on and pulled on some old pyjama pants that I never wore and a t-shirt that was probably too small for me. When I settled down in the living room with my book, my mother stopped in to look on me. "I'm doing laundry. Do you want anything done?" She was wearing yoga pants and a white, v-neck t-shirt. Her tits looked huge. My cock reacted almost immediately. "Daniel?" she asked, sounding a bit irritated. I must have been staring.
"Um, no, thank you," I managed to mumble. She turned to leave the room. "Mom?" I called after her causing her to stop and look back at me. "I can do it, you know." She raised an eyebrow. "The laundry. You don't have to do it for me."
"I know," she smiled, "But normal for us is me taking care of you. Besides, with your father away so much lately, I don't have a man to take care of, and I need that."
I nodded. She turned to leave and I watched her walk away, my eyes fixed on her ass. My mother was fucking built.
I lasted about four minutes before I was up in my room with my pyjama pants and underwear around my ankles. I kept imaging my mother's pussy in my face, looking up at her sitting on my mouth, cupping her large breasts in her hands. I came so hard my chest and stomach were covered. I debated showering again. As I wiped myself up the bedroom door seemed to open by itself. No one was there. Had I even closed it?
* * * * *
At dinner, my mother and I didn't speak. As I got up to clear our plates and do the dishes, my mother kept her eyes on the table and quietly said, "You can't look at me like that when your father is home."
I gave a half nod and took the dishes to the sink. I started to run the water. My mother left the kitchen and went up to her room.
I did the dishes, put everything away, then watched basketball and went to bed. I had to work in the morning.
* * * * *
When I came home from the gas station I had emails from both my sisters. They were the plainest, friendliest, pure and sisterly missives you could imagine. You'd never know I'd had my cock in these women, and that they'd appeared to have loved it.
