"Mom, if you pass me that canister," Stan pointed to a round, tin container with sunflowers on the outside and flour on the inside, "I can put it up here. We don't use it much, so it'll be out of the way."
"I appreciate you helping me reorganize the kitchen. I never liked how your father insisted I keep it, and now's the right time to change all that." She passed him the canister, pressing into him a bit as she did.
Did she just rub herself on me? Stan thought, feeling odd at the encounter. You're being stupid. She's your mom.
Stan huffed. His parents had separated more than a year ago and their divorce had just become final. He was glad his mom was finally taking this step, moving on from that relationship. He'd been worried about her. "Glad to help."
"I know, I know. I should have done this long ago." It was as though she was reading his thoughts.
"Mom, everything in its own time. You're the best one to know when to do things for yourself."
"I hope you don't think I'm trying to trash him in your eyes."
Stan stepped down from the stool he'd used to reach the top cupboard shelf. "Not at all, Mom." Gripping her shoulders, lowering his head just a bit, cocking it to one side, he continued. "You've been a trooper, gone through a lot of stuff, and I've never felt you were trying to diminish my relationship with Dad, such as it is. I'm glad we're making these changes to clean the house of him. It's already feeling fresher, friendlier in here."
"Thanks son." She stepped in close, put her arms around him, gave him a tight squeeze. He tingled when her hips rocked against him. Does she know she's doing that?
She released him, turning away. Just his mom again.
"Are you feeling alright, Mom?" He looked at her, noting her fine facial features. Elvish, he'd always thought. She's a dainty lady. Blonde curls framed her delicate nose and chin, cascading past her shoulders, extending to the tops of her breasts. Bosoms. She's your mom, so they're bosoms. She only came up to his armpits, something he'd teased her about ever since his head had nudged higher than hers. He had always thought she looked amazing with her narrow shoulders, slim waist, and legs. But then, she was his mom, and he knew his impression of her was tainted by the love he had for her. Even though he'd seen age working on her, thickening in her thighs and hips, a small paunch but hardly noticeable, certainly nothing like Dad's beer gut. Too, there were lines around her mouth and by her eyes, and speckles of grey at her temples, but after all, she's approaching forty. Stan hoped he looked as good when he was her age, twenty years from now.
"Yes," she gave him a funny look, as though she was concerned or frightened, but it lasted only a moment. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing." Stan stammered, wanting to take back his question and his thoughts. "I just worry about you. I know you've been stressed lately."
"I'm a big girl, but I appreciate the concern."
"You been taking those pills the doctor gave you? You know, for the anxiety."
"Yes, mother." She gave him a stern look.
Stan dropped the subject. "OK, what next?"
They continued to work, assembling the kitchen how his mother wanted it. That made sense to him. She did most of the work in it, so it should suit her. Stan continued to watch his mother, remembering how she's rubbed against him. He wasn't certain why it stuck in his mind, or why it resulted in that tingle that reverberated through him. Maybe because when it happened, it stirred up some of the same feelings that came when a girlfriend got close to him.
He didn't have a girlfriend right now, having broken up with the last one a month ago. He missed the sex play, but not the mind games she was playing, manipulating him. Thinking about how she would touch him, how she felt, caused a flush of tingles in his crotch, so he turned his mind back to the work they were doing.
"Thanks, Stan," his mother sighed. "I am glad that job's done." She stood, one hand on her hip, glancing around the room. The other hand was in front of her, low, hidden by the waist-high counter that was between them. It moved a little. Is she rubbing herself? The thought rocketed into his brain.
He felt a flush as his concentration focussed on that spot. "Mom, what are you doing?" The words were spoken before he could stop them from spilling out.
"What?" Her head snapped toward him. That hand continued to move. Looking at his face, she must have noticed his stare, because then she looked down. Her hand froze for a moment, then moved behind her in a blur. "Oh," the word barked out, but the rest of her sentence was more controlled, "I guess I'm just a little itchy." Her face flushed, and she didn't meet his eyes. She gave him a weak smile. "I'm sorry. Wasn't thinking."
Seeing how embarrassed she was, Stan let her off the hook with just a squint. "If we're all done, I'm going to watch some TV."
"Uh, sure. That's a good idea." She turned and headed down the hallway that led to her bedroom.
What's up? Stan wondered. She always says I watch too much TV.
Later, Mom joined him in the living room. Stan was watching The Slicker Club, a sitcom about a group of millennials struggling with their view of how their families should treat them. He found it only mildly amusing, but two of the actresses stimulated his imagination and libido as he fantasized how he would service them if given the opportunity. In his mind, they would come to amazing, life-changing orgasms because of his tongue, fingers, and cock. Today, he had managed to reward himself with a painful erection. When his mom came in, he had to shift his posture to ensure his hard-on wasn't visible.
"I don't know how you can watch this show." His mom sighed as she settled onto the far end of the couch. Dad's chair was the only other seating in the room, but neither used it much. To Stan, it felt like some sort of violation. Dad had been so insistent on no one else sitting in it. "I have it shaped to my ass. Don't go spoiling that." Twice, Stan had sat in it, bounced up and down, trying to erase that aspect of his father from the house. His mom wasn't the only one who had suffered.
Dad hadn't been cruel, more mean and demeaning, but Stan still maintained contact. He didn't miss him now that he wasn't here.
"It has its moments. Makes me laugh." Stan had to say something, so she didn't know his real reason. He would slink away to his bedroom and take care of his stimulation later. As they watched the antics on the screen, Stan heard his mom laughing, too.
She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms trapped between them. Feeling a vibration in the couch, Stan glanced toward her. Is she rubbing herself again? He was certain she was doing that with her elbow. She was focussed on the TV, but there was a strange look on her face. Stan thought she looked frightened, lonely.
"Are you alright, Mom?"
She jerked her head toward him as though she had forgotten he was in the room, and his words startled her. She sat up straight, lowering her feet to the floor, putting her hands on her thighs. "Yes. What do you mean?" Her words sounded strong, but her face was flushed. Stan knew she was embarrassed.
His concern overrode his own bashfulness, and he said, "Well, to tell the truth, that's not the first time I've seen you rubbing yourself down there. Are you itchy or something?" He did feel justified since she had commented a time or two when he had been giving himself a little attention when his junk needed scratching or was in an uncomfortable position.
She blossomed a darker shade of red and turned away from him. "I don't know what you mean." Then she paused a moment, staring at something on the far wall before turning back to him. Her face softened. "I don't know what's wrong with me." Tears welled in her eyes and her jaw quivered. Her next words came in a rush as though she was afraid if she didn't blurt them, they'd stick and never come out. "These past few days, I've found myself needing to rub against things." Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth pulled into an 'O' as though she'd shocked herself by speaking. "I can't talk about this with my son."
"Why not Mom. We've always been open with each other."
"But this is different. It's," again she paused, her eyes flicking here and there, then back at him, "you know." She glanced down, then up. "The sex thing." She hissed the words.
"We talk about sex all the time."
"But not like this."
