Over the years I've enjoyed many a Literotica story recounting the happy results of a mother stumbling on her son's pornography collection, or a daughter finding her father's secret stash, or... You get the picture. I've been wanting to try something along those lines. Here it is; I hope you enjoy.
This story is fiction; Jodi Palmer, its heroine, and the Osé are not. Jodi is based on a court reporter I know. The Osé came to my attention when I read how it'd been stripped of an innovation award and banned from the 2019 Las Vegas Consumer Electronics Show for being immoral.
As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.
* * * * *
Mom texted. She'd be working late covering a deposition for one of the firm's other court reporters. Since Dad was out-of-town I was on my own.
I texted Sharon, invited her over for a massage. A month after we started dating Sharon suggested we take a massage class taught by her mother, Alex. I, of course, said yes. Any excuse to touch Sharon or check-out her mother – there was no mystery where Sharon got her hair, a rust color in contrast to her mother's flaming red, freckles, and general good looks – was welcome. Added bonus: little got my girlfriend's engines roaring like receiving, or giving, a massage.
I set up the massage table in the home theater then headed for Dad's computer to down-load massage porn. The best place to hide a tree? A forest. The best place to hide porn? Dad's computer, which was stuffed with it without discernible pattern or organization. My plan: spice up our massage by running massage porn – massage morphs into big-dicked masseuse fucking hot female client – through the television. My goal: wicked hot sex.
* * * * *
I knew about Dad's porn, figured Mom had to – at night he'd disappear into his office, purportedly to check e-mails and work schedules, emerging thirty minutes later winded and flushed – and assumed Mom was happy to let Dad get his relatively innocent jollies. They rarely displayed physical affection for each other any more and I couldn't recall the last time they'd done it. From Mom's point of view it made sense. Dad, the co-owner of a small trucking company, letting his sedentary lifestyle and bad diet get to him, had grown, was growing ever wider.
From Dad's, not so much. Mom was perfect. Knowing that male lawyers, still a substantial majority in the insurance defense bar that dominated her clientele, preferred a court reporter who showed up on time, provided timely accurate transcripts, dressed professionally, did not mind the occasional rush job or working late, and was easy on the eyes, Mom worked hard on being easy on the eyes. A fixture at the gym, she was thin and, except for "C" breasts (she'd had work done) that looked even bigger on her slender toned frame, curve-free. If you approached her from the rear, her five foot three inch body dressed in a tight but appropriate suit, blonde highlighted hair in a pony-tail, moving gracefully on omnipresent heels rolling her equipment behind her, you'd swear she was in her twenties. It was only when you caught up with her and studied her narrow face and saw the wrinkles around her violet eyes, at the corners of her thin lips, on her hands, that you knew she was approaching forty.
Still there was something of the ice princess to her. She was meticulous, hair, make-up, clothes always just right, speech and diction impeccable, polite, formal, funny but never flirty, posture erect, manners irreproachable. The message: you could look, but keep your distance.
In re-reading this I see I've drawn a too negative a picture of my parents' marriage. We lived a good life, wanted for nothing. My parents liked each other, talked every day, never let a fight get out of control, and no one could make my mother laugh, a comical gut-busting laugh that shook her tiny frame, like my father. They were no longer lovers, but they were best friends.
* * * * *
I've digressed, let me get back to my story. While downloading massage porn into my Dad's computer I noticed someone had opened a link to the porn that morning. Only Mom had been home. Mom watched porn? I knew Mom's sex drive was intact; I'd discovered a small pink vibrator in the back of her lingerie drawer, but still, my mother, the Queen of Appropriate, watched porn? I checked; it had been open for 22 minutes. Had Mom masturbated? My Mom, the ice queen, masturbated to porn?
I opened the drawer, took a picture of the vibrator. When next she used it I'd know.
* * * * *
With massage porn playing on the television I finished Sharon's back and said, "Roll over."
Sharon did, and keeping an eye on the television, where the brunette masseuse dripped oil onto her customer's cock, stroked its impressive length with delicate strong hands.
I worked Sharon's breasts, changing motion and pressure, trapping her nipples between my fingers. Sharon, pussy lips swollen and wet, moaned.
On the televison the masseuse pulled her shirt over her head, covered her large tear-drop breasts with oil, climbed onto the massage table, leaned forward, captured her customer's cock between those tits.
Cork-screwing two fingers into Sharon's vagina I said, "You're soaking wet babe."
"You have talented hands."
A drop of sweat formed on Sharon's forehead, flowed down the side of her face.
I dragged my fingertips on the roof of her vagina and Sharon, locking her fingers on the edge of the table, moaned.
The movement of her hips letting me know what she wanted, I swirled my thumb on her clitoris, leaned down, kissed her, slid my tongue behind her lips, around the inside of her mouth, covered an oily breast with a hand, rolled her nipple between my fingers, moved my mouth to her ear, nibbled sucked an ear lobe, said, "I love your body, love to touch it."
The juice flowing from her sex rippled past my fingers. Curling a finger I ran it through the folds of her labia, did it again, again, bringing her closer, closer.
Her throbbing clit shed its hood, stood straight and tall.
"How does that feel babe, is your cunt on fire?"
She moaned squeaked, "Yes, fuck yes."
I surfed my pinkie on a stream of her juice to her anus, said, "You love this. You're a naughty girl who loves having her asshole played with."
"Unnhhh."
Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her tongue flicked across her lips.
"You're a hot cunt."
"Uunnnhhhhh."
I pushed her to the edge of a powerful orgasm, eased off, walked her back, did it again, then again and again until her unfulfilled desire became an ecstatic torture and she begged, "Please, please, I can't stand any more, don't tease, I need it, I need it, I need it."
Wiggling the tip of my finger on her anus I said, "Please is not the magic word tonight. Instead, repeat after me, 'I'm a dirty girl who loves having her asshole stroked.'"
Groaning in need and despair, lips quivering, she said, "Please, yes please, my asshole."
"Close."
"Okay, I'm a dirty girl who loves having her asshole stroked."
"Again."
"Oh yessssss, I'm a dirty girl who loves having her asshole stroked."`
I sank the first digit of my pinkie into her anus; I played with her clit. My beautiful red-headed girlfriend groaning her delight had become a musical instrument and I the virtuoso. Jobbering, "Don't stop, please, please don't stop, please, oh..., oh..., of..., of..., ohgod, ohgod, ohmigod, aaaaahhh, nnnngggh, aaaaannnnhhh," she rolled her distended nipples between her fingers, bucked her hips, and, as we completed the coda screamed, "Oh, fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck yes, I'm coming," and detonated. I continued working her and another, then another, orgasm ripped through her until spent, gasping for air, flopping her hand atop mine she whispered, "Please stop, please stop," and, one leg quivering, slumped into the table.
I leaned down, kissed her, but at a groan of pleasure from the television Sharon turned her head to see the on-screen masseuse swallow her customer's cock.
Sharon reached for my dick. The actress was good; Sharon was better, much better.
* * * * *
After Sharon left I folded up the massage table, returned it to the closet, went to my parent's bedroom, labeled the videos we'd watched "Massage Room" and scattered them through Dad's collection – clumped together they might draw attention. I showered, washed the smell of sex off me, and when Mom got home helped unload her gear, asked how her day went.
"Long and dull, the deposition was about accounting. They want to start early tomorrow. Before I hit the sack I'm going to have a cup of tea, watch a little television. Wanna join me?"
We made tea, I told her about school, nothing new there, that I'd invited Sharon over – Mom liked Sharon – for a massage, which is when we entered the home theater. It smelled of the afternoon's sex. Having earlier grown acclimated to it I'd not thought to open a window. Now I looked at Mom who, nostrils flaring, turned to me with a half smile and said, "Y'know dear, I like Sharon, much better then what's her name," my mother's pet name for a previous girlfriend, "but if you become intimate remember, use protection. I'm not ready to be a grandmother."
* * * * *
The next morning I loaded Mom's equipment while she, looking smashingly good, grabbed a cup of coffee, a protein bar, and kissed me good-bye. After she drove off I went to her bedroom to check the computer. Last night she'd opened and watched one of the videos I'd labeled "Massage Room," done so long enough to masturbate. I opened her lingerie draw, called up the picture on my phone. The vibrator had been moved. I picked it up, sniffed it, detected an odor, returned it to the same position, took another photograph.
Had Sharon and I inspired my mother to masturbate? Had we inspired her choice of porn?
* * * * *
It was said Mr. Hunakee had not varied the routine during his 37 years of teaching. I can't vouch for that, although it had been immutable during my four years of high school. He'd ride his bicycle the three blocks home, eat lunch with his wife, in good weather on the front porch, and ride back. This meant his chemistry lab was empty and so, after popping the rear door lock with my driver's license, it was where Sharon and I grabbed a quickie while our classmates chowed down.
After we were done I told her I'd discovered that Mom not only watched porn but, last night, after determining Sharon and I had sex, Mom had masturbated to massage porn.
Nonplused Sharon said, "You act surprised. You said she and your Dad don't do it anymore. Your Mom's a beautiful woman in her sexual prime. Of course she masturbates, of course she has toys. You know my Mom does."
Pushing the image of Sharon's hot mom pressing a vibrator to her sex from my mind I said, "I guess I don't think of Mom as having a sexual side. I know she's pretty, but that's for work. She's stand-offish, never flirts, is always appropriate and professional. Who'd guess she dug porn?"
With an exasperated roll of her eyes Sharon said, "Men! As hard as your Mom works to look as good as she does, with those implants, the way she dresses – classy, but never lets you forget she's built like a brick shithouse – you think that's an accident, you thinks that's for work? Your Mom likes eyes on her. Yeah, there's a sexual side to her, you just need to notice."
* * * * *
Dad got home that night. We celebrated over pizza. Over the next few days he spent a lot time in his office catching up on company business and downloading porn.
* * * * *
With Dad going back out on the road Mom prepared his favorite breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes, bacon, and orange juice. I joined them in the kitchen.
"Smell's great Mom. Can I top off your coffee Dad?"
