Chapter One

Jessica smiled sympathetically and reached across the kitchen table. She took my hand and squeezed it, offering comfort and support.

"It's been two weeks, Ken. It's time to put her affairs in order."

I nodded. It was.

"Would you like me to go with you?" she offered. "I can take time off work. The kids can look after themselves for a few days, or I can get my sister to keep an eye on them."

I squeezed my wife's hand in gratitude. She was such a wonderful woman.

"No. Thank you. I think I want to do this alone."

"It won't be easy," Jessica observed, her soft brown eyes sympathetic.

"It's what I need," I assured her.

"Okay. I'll pack your bag. You book the flight."

It was so Jessica. Discuss, decide, do. No fussing around. No second-guessing. And once the decision is made, give it her full support, no matter if she agrees or not. To her, dithering is a waste of time and energy. It was one of the many personality traits that made me love her like crazy, even after almost two decades.

I stood, bent, and kissed her. "Thanks, honey."

Sixteen hours later I turned the rented Chevy into the unassuming drive of a moderate bungalow, one of many in the small residential development built back in the fifties.

I parked and climbed out. The scent of freshly mowed grass filled the air. It pleased me to see the lawn trimmed, taken care of. The gardening service I'd arranged for was doing what they'd been contracted to do; a rare occurrence in my experience.

I leaned on the Chevy roof, the door still open, and looked down the street. Each house showed caring owners: yards neat and tidy; bungalows of different sizes, some with attached garages, some with carports; all homes a mix of brick and painted wooden siding, the colors of which provided most of the differentiation.

In my mind's eye, I saw the families that had lived here so long ago: the Kendrick's with three kids, one, Jimmy, a friend I'd grown up with; the Farhavens and their daughter Betsy who'd been my first crush, blonde and blossoming; Mr. Larsen, the only widow on the street, kindly and always ready to fix my punctured bike tires; and Mr. and Mrs. Gerald in the bright red painted house, Mrs. Gerald young, pretty, and in the habit of getting her morning paper wearing risqué nightgowns, her hair in curlers.

Closing the Chevy door, I opened the back, grabbed my overnight case and headed up the drive. Two white columns supported a peaked overhang covering the porch. A white wicker chair sat empty to one side. Mom liked to sit out on it and watch life go by in the close-knit neighborhood.

Fishing in my pocket, I found her key ring and opened the white front door. Familiar scents washed over me when I stepped inside; furniture polish and perfume - Mom's specter still haunting the house. A pile of mail littered the floor.

Closing the door, I paused. Not much had changed through the years. This was the home I'd grown up in. It was the home my mother and I shared, my father having passed away far too young from lung cancer. This was the house where I'd laughed with my mother, where we'd argued, where I'd been spanked at four years old for coloring on the walls in the hall.

I dropped the overnight case and wandered into the living room. Memories rushed back at the sight of familiar furniture lovingly taken care of. The old television in the corner was the same, needing several minutes to warm up before I could watch Saturday morning cartoons; The Jetsons, Fred and Barney in the Flintstones, Mighty Mouse. The couch was the same - solid wood with floral upholstery, two matching armchairs, and a solid wood coffee table.

I remembered Mom being so proud of the new pale yellow wall-to-wall carpet and how well it went with the cream painted walls. She'd painted the wooden trim a matching yellow herself. And I remembered how soft the carpet felt on my bare feet in the mornings.

To the left, the mahogany dining table reflected light coming through the sliding glass doors facing the back yard. Dust had collected on the surface. Mom wouldn't have let that happen. In my mind's eye, I saw her polishing it with Pledge, then adjusting the centerpiece, a porcelain spring flower basket.

Walking through the dining room, I studied framed photographs on the wall and side cabinet. There I was at three years old, in formal pants and shirt after Dad's funeral, looking somber and holding Mom's hand. Despite the sadness in her face, Mom was beautiful back then. Her black dress, black nylons, conservative black shoes, a small black hat with the veil up, and black gloves and handbag couldn't hide her looks.

Next to it, in a fancy silver frame, Dad and Mom looked so young, radiantly happy newlyweds. She'd been so pretty at twenty-one, her life ahead of her, optimistic, in love. Dad, despite his serious expression, showed pride. He'd landed a beautiful woman. She'd chosen him. It was in his stance, his chest out, standing tall and slender.

I pulled my cell phone out and dialed.

"Hi. It's me. I just wanted you to know I've arrived."

Jessica's voice was soft. "How are you doing? Is it hard?"

"I'm okay. I feel like I'm a kid again. Everything I look at brings back memories." I paused for a moment, still looking at the photo of my parents. "This is going to be difficult. I'm not sure I want to get rid of things. It might take more than two days."

"Take all the time you need, Ken. If you want, put everything in storage and we'll deal with it together later, when it's easier. Are you sure you don't want help?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine. So little has changed. It's a walk down memory lane."

"Well, call me if you need to talk. Don't get too sad, honey."

"I won't. Talk to you tonight. Love you."

I hung up and entered the kitchen. White cupboards, thick with paint, framed the kitchen window, the curtains pulled to the sides. The tap at the sink dripped slowly. The speckled Formica counter was uncluttered, unlike when I'd been young. Back then, Mom always had something cooking or baking, providing for two. I wondered if she felt lonely after I married and moved away. She claimed not, but I didn't believe her.

Two porcelain jars with pretty painted daisies held kitchen spoons, spatulas, and other implements. The electric stove was olive green, matching the old Frigidaire refrigerator and an electric Kenwood mixer on the counter. In my mind, I could hear that mixer running, my excitement at Mom baking a chocolate Devil's food cake. I could see Mom, well dressed even when cooking, with her apron on, flouring two pans, and baking chocolate, powdered sugar, butter and a bottle of vanilla on the counter waiting for icing to be made, a double boiler on the stove warming to melt the butter and semi-sweet chocolate squares.

I smelled it now; the aroma of cake baking in the oven.

Moving to the small, chrome and Formica kitchen table, I pulled out a chair and sat exactly where I used to as a kid. I heard Mom chatting away, asking me about school and friends while pouring batter into pans. And I saw her smile at me, her blue eyes bright, blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, her flowery apron.

She brought the bowl and spatula over. "You can clean the bowl, but promise you'll eat all your dinner."

I could taste the chocolate batter and feel it smear on my cheeks, the spatula too wide for my mouth, and my excitement that the next bowl to be licked clean would be icing - my favorite.

Gingham curtains framed the kitchen window, the one Mom used to watch out through as she washed dishes, keeping an eye on me and my friends as we built cardboard forts and conducted an intense war, toy cap guns popping. It made me smile.

Getting up, I wandered into the hall, studying more framed photographs intermingled with framed prints of daisies and roses. Mom always loved spring flowers, telling me it reminded her of new life and happiness and possibilities.

To my left, I pushed the bathroom door open and glanced in. The smell of floral soap hit me. The pale pink bathtub, sink, and toilet hadn't changed. Nor had the matching shag pile bath and toilet mats.

I moved on. My bedroom door stood open. I glanced in. There was nothing of me left except the bed, desk and dresser. But I could picture the disorganized mess I'd live with, posters on the walls, finished model airplanes on the dresser and a partially complete one on the plain oak wood desk. I could see clothes strewn on the floor, my bed unmade. Smiling, I remembered the stash of Playboy magazines I'd thought well hidden from Mom under the mattress; the well thumbed magazines Jimmy had discovered in Mr. Larsen's garbage can and shared with me. I remembered fondly the excitement I'd experienced seeing my first naked woman, their breasts and full pubic bushes, and how I'd discovered the joy of masturbating - the start of my adolescent journey.

It was several years later when Mom told me she'd found the Playboys and left them there, happy enough to know I was a normal teen. It was a telling sign of Mom's attitude towards sex.

As I approached the master bedroom, memories intensified. The door was ajar. I pushed it open and her scent hit me; perfume - Chanel No. 5 - and facial powders.

The textured chenille bedcover was immaculate, light green and white with small pink roses, the hem touching the floor. Pale cream carpeting covered the floor. To one side was a small bench chair and table, an oval mirror on top. Small jars of face cream jostled for space with perfume bottles, facial powders, lipstick, eyeliner and mascara, hair pins and rollers, brushes and combs. It had always been the most disorganized spot in the house. I knew the two drawers on either side held even more makeup. Mom had been careful about her appearance, even if it was only for a trip to the grocery store. Back then, that's how it was; smart skirts, nylons, blouses, high heels and hair coifed before any appearance in public.

A wide dresser on the left, below the window, was neat. More framed photographs were arranged on top. I stepped over to it and studied them: me at thirteen astride my bicycle, grinning with pleasure at Mom's birthday gift to me, shorts and unlaced sneakers and red football jersey, my hair unruly; me at fifteen, a football under one arm, Jimmy making a face next to me; me at eighteen, dressed in a suit, carnation in the collar, with Betsy in a frilly blue prom dress, her arm through mine. Was I ever that young?

I saw photos of Jessica and me at our wedding, baby photos of my daughter, Lilly, and younger son, Carl, named after my father. Mom had added photos I'd sent to her of birthdays and Christmases - my life she was so proud of.

I missed her. I ached with loss. It felt so lonely to see this. But Mom had refused to move. She'd refused to impose on Jessica and me. She'd insisted I had a life to live and she was quite happy being alone, reminding me she had a large circle of friends to keep her busy. She was too self sufficient to consider a retirement condo. Too young, too, at sixty-seven.

I picked up one framed photo and sat on her bed. It was my favorite and I'd taken it. I'd taken it in fun. I was sixteen. We'd barbecued hamburgers, the summer weather warm enough for me to wear a swimming suit. The camera was new at the time, with a nifty time delay feature - a small spring-loaded dial.

It was one of the rare times Mom wore a bikini and I'd joked, asking her to pose. She had, one of those alluring poses, one hand on a cocked hip, knee bent in, and facing the camera slightly sideways, her arm around my waist. I was in tight swimming trunks, tall and lanky, grinning like a fool. Mom's bikini was chaste by today's standards, the bra top providing full coverage of her bust, the bottoms conservative. Small frills edged the yellow and white bikini. Back then, her bikini was considered racy by neighborhood standards, amusing Mom. Back then, I'd considered it sexy.

Mom must have been thirty-seven or -eight, in the prime of her life, her body full of sensual curves, waist narrow. She wasn't plump or thin, just normal, a classic, well maintained female of the era. Through the eyes of time, I could appreciate how beautiful she was.

I missed her. I missed her as she was then and as she was later in life, a woman of strength, compassion, and endless love who steered me through my teens and into my adult life, despite myself. I was me because of her and no one else.

Sighing, I stood and replaced the photograph on the dresser. Then I opened the top right drawer.

Memories came rushing back, sharp and powerful. I knew what was in this drawer - my puberty, my sexual awareness, my formative adolescence, and sexual tastes that had stayed with me all my life.

In the drawer, I studied my mother's intimates, her lingerie, and I knew them all. Brushing them with my fingers, I saw a powder blue pair of panties, full cut - what everyone now calls granny panties. I lifted the soft, thin cotton panties out, and remembered the first time I saw them.

Fourteen years old.

I yelled out, asking Mom where my favorite jeans were. Her muffled reply was unintelligible, so I went to her bedroom. The door was ajar. Mom was at her dresser buttoning a cream blouse, and I stopped.

It was the first time I saw Mom as a female, like the girls in those Playboys. Standing in the hall, peeking in, wearing a T-shirt, socks and underwear, I studied her. She stood side on. The cotton panties weren't the stretchy type of today. They were looser, full cut with thin elastic. They draped over her rear giving shape to her ass, such lovely swells. She moved and I saw her front. An erection slowly formed as I admired how her lower stomach curved slightly and, making me hold my breath, I saw the shadow of her dark brown pubic bush, how it filled her crotch and shaped those cotton panties hinting at fullness, dense, erotic. Elastic leg bands disappeared at her crotch and her pussy pressed against the soft cotton where it tapered to between her thighs, the double gusset round, full.

When she turned away, opened a lower drawer and bent, powder blue cotton stretched on her pear-shaped ass and I saw cotton dip along her butt crack.

Mom transformed into a sensual female in that moment; real, with breasts and pubes. She became much more than a mother - an erotic fantasy.

Now hard, I retreated to my bedroom, closed the door, tugged my underwear down to release my erection, and masturbated, eyes closed and replaying the exciting sight of Mom in panties. I came fast, spurting cum onto the carpet, pleasure washing through me as I stroked myself. That first time, guilt hit me. Ashamed, I cleaned up and grabbed yesterday's jeans.

Smiling at the memory of that first time, I put Mom's powder blue panties back in the drawer. Later that morning, I hadn't been able to look Mom in the eye, too embarrassed. It didn't last long. By the afternoon I found myself studying the shape of her in a pleated mid-calf skirt and blouse, wondering how big her breasts were while I studied them. It was the first time I wanted to peek up her skirt and see her panties, and I was horny again.

Another memory popped up and I smiled to myself. Brushing through her panty drawer, I found the white pair. They were full-cut again, but soft rayon tricot. Pulling them out, I rubbed them in my hand and felt a familiar stir of arousal.

Between that first sight of Mom and Playboy magazines, I'd been constantly horny, except when playing outdoors. Life back then was conducted outside, exploring, playing with friends, taking long, long bike rides, stopping at the ice cream shop for a pre-dinner treat, flirting with girls. Television was an evening affair, watched in moderation, Mom refusing to let me overdose on it.

It was one day when Mom was out shopping that I explored her bedroom, a previously ignored room of the house. It was the first time I discovered her panty drawer and the cornucopia of sensual underwear; her bras and girdles, her silk stockings and pantyhose, and interesting me, some rather risqué teddies. In Mom's dresser I discovered a woman who was sexual, not my mother, but more.

And that formative day I found this pair of white rayon tricot panties in the wicker laundry basket, casually tossed in. Excitement mounted. Mom had worn these slinky panties! They'd pressed against her pussy!

Excited, now erect, I reached in and touched them, then pulled them out, held them up to admire them and, erection straining in my jeans, I inspected the inside gusset and saw a single, short, brown pubic hair. It had fueled my excitement.

Almost mindlessly, I brought the gusset to my nose and sniffed. Nothing. It didn't matter. Those full-cut nylon tricot panties felt like pure silk in my hand, slippery and soft. I took them with me to my room, closed the door and, horny as hell, opened my jeans, shoved them down, and pulled the front of my underwear down, my cock springing free. That first touch of silky panties on my cock sent waves of pleasure through me. My cock was touching an intimate part of a female and it thrilled me. And then I stroked my erection, her panties wrapped around my erection, slipping and sliding sensually, slightly cool . . . my mother's panties. A few wonderful strokes and I came explosively, semen spurting, pleasure hitting me with each aching spurt. When my orgasm passed, I saw with horror some of my milky semen had stained her panties.

Tugging my underwear and jeans up, I hurried to the bathroom and washed the stain off. In her bedroom, I shoved her damp panties to the bottom of the laundry basket, hoping they'd dry before laundry day.

The memory made me chuckle. It wasn't until years later that Mom let me know she'd found them still damp and suspected why.

Rubbing those panties between my fingers, I felt that long ago excitement again; the first exploration of something forbidden and erotic. And I became partially erect. Forty-five years old and they still had an impact on me.

Returning them to the drawer, I closed it before temptation distracted me. I moved to her closet, opened it and studied her dresses, blouses and skirts. Even as she aged, Mom insisted on being well presented, her clothes carefully bought and meticulously cared for, none ever thrown out.

With a sigh, I closed the closet and left. It was time to buy packing boxes.

Chapter Two

I started with mementos and framed photos, packing them carefully. The kids would one day appreciate their grandmother's things. As night fell, I left to grab a bite to eat, then returned. Inside the living room side table I found Mom's liqueur bottles. She preferred gin tonics in summer, a glass of sherry in colder weather. The bottle of Hiram Walker whiskey was almost full. I poured myself a glass and sipped it as I wandered around.

Her bedroom drew me back. I sat on her bed, turned the bedside lamp on, and let memories flow.

Discovering my mother's panties had changed my sexual development. Like a drug, I'd surreptitiously returned to her laundry hamper to discover what pairs she'd worn. There was an illicit thrill at touching her panties. Every time I'd get aroused. The second time, I'd discovered panties that brought home my mother's sexuality.

In the hamper, her bra was on top and I picked it up to study it. It was white with three metal hooks on the band. The cups had a metal wire underneath. But what caught my attention were the cups themselves. They were gossamer thin. In my mind, I pictured them on Mom and knew her breasts would be visible through the material. I wondered what Mom's nipples were like. How big were her areolae? What color were they?

Now horny, I replace the bra and fished around in the hamper, finding and pulling out her matching panties. Gossamer thin and white, I held them. When I imagined Mom wearing them and pictured how her thick pubic bush would show through, my erection strained.

The sound of the front door opening made me panic. I shoved her panties in my jean pocket and ran out of her room. There, in my pocket, they were forgotten as dinner was made and we watched TV. It wasn't until I went to bed that I rediscovered them. A moment of panic that I hadn't returned them, that Mom would discover my panty theft, was shoved aside when I fondled them and became horny again. Touching them was like touching Mom, intimate, taboo.

I shoved them under my pillow, changed into pajamas, checked that Mom wasn't around to see the tent of my erection, and rushed to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Back in my room, excitement mounting, I pulled a Playboy out from under the mattress and got in bed. I browsed the well used magazine until I came to the Playboy of the Month, a sexy brunette with full breasts and a thick pubic bush. Pushing the bed covers down, I fished my erection out of my pajamas and reached under the pillow, bringing Mom's white, gossamer panties out. I inspected the cotton crotch and noticed a slight discoloration, brought the gusset to my nose and sniffed. Was there a slight hint of something?

Excited, aroused, and horny, I carefully positioned her panties over my cock, my tip touching the cotton gusset where Mom's pussy had been. Wrapping the panties around my shaft, I looked at Miss April, pretended it was Mom, and stroked my erection with her panties. It was a new sensation, more intense, seeing a naked woman while masturbating with panties. It felt wonderful. It was exciting. And it didn't take long for my cock to strain and pulse. Stroking my cock, the panties shifted and the tip of my cock slipped up the cotton gusset to press against the gossamer material. I loved the sight of my cock in her panties. Precum leaked, dampening them and I was too far gone to care. Stroking my cock with Mom's panties excited me so damn much. When the pressure of an incipient climax arrived, I stared at my cock, ignored the Playboy, and groaned quietly as my orgasm arrived. My cock swelled, pleasure burst, and I came in her panties, thick semen spurting and oozing through gossamer. I pulsed and spurted again, hot cum surrounding my tip, a wet stain spreading. I was cumming in Mom's panties and, God was it exciting! Stroking myself faster, I came hard, pleasure washing through me.

As my orgasm passed and erection waned, guilt arrived. Seeing the mess I'd made of her panties brought on temporary panic. Folding them up, I shoved them under the mattress with the Playboy, determined to wash them out the next day and return them to her hamper.

Sipping whiskey, I smiled to myself at the memory. It was still so strong, so vivid, I had a partial erection just from remembering the event. My fourteenth year had been one of exploration and discovery. Females became an obsession, all females, including Mom.

I'd made a point of trying to peek at Mom dressing. One occasion popped to mind. Standing, I opened her panty drawer and hunted through her intimates. There it was. I pulled out the pastel yellow panties and sat back on the bed, sipping whiskey and studying them. These were cotton hip-huggers, the sides narrow but not quite bikini style.

I laid them out on my knee and let my mind drift back to when I first saw them.

It was the tenth or so time I'd tried to peek into Mom's room to catch her dressing. This time, I timed it perfectly. While I'd hoped to see Mom naked - I wanted to know what her breasts looked like - she was already wearing her bra and panties. Somewhat disappointed, I watched her from the hall. Mom's breasts were full but not overly large (at least not as large as those of Playboy bunnies). She was wearing a pastel yellow bra, the cups of delicate lace. The bra gave shape to her breasts, full and suggestive. But it was her panties that caught my attention. Low cut, they revealed little at first.

But then, Mom turned to pick up pantyhose from the bed and I saw the top of her butt crack above the waist of her panties and my mind fired up, picturing Mom's ass, enjoying its sensual pear shape, how those panties hugged the bottom of her buttocks, and I got an erection, excited by the illicit sight.

Mom turned back to the mirror and started collecting the pantyhose, rolling one leg up. She moved back and sat on the bed, her near leg rising, and that's when I saw it. Pastel yellow panties stretched tightly to her pussy, shaping it, and at the waist, I caught sight of a few dark pubic hairs escaping. I rubbed my crotch, stared, and held my breath when her knee reached her chest, her hands holding the pantyhose at her toes. There, at her crotch, her vulva full and pouty, dark brown pubic hairs had escaped at the elastic leg.

I rubbed my erection inside my pants faster and watched Mom slip pantyhose up her leg. She pulled it up her other leg and, with the pantyhose at her thighs, she stood and almost wiggled into them, pulling them up to her waist. The pantyhose pressed tight to her, shaping her, and it seemed like her mons pressed out, lush, ripe, a sensual mound.

Standing, peeking in, I rubbed my crotch, so turned on by the sight of honest-to-goodness real pubes, my mother's pubes, and, seeing her in her pantyhose, small panties, and bra, I came in my pants, erection pulsing and spurting hot, wet cum. Pleasure coursed through me, my cock swelling, bliss hitting with each rapid spurt. Wetness spread in my underwear. I rubbed myself, cumming hard, heart racing, and as my climax passed, I backed away and returned to my room. I'd made a real mess in my underwear, but my mind was on fire. It was the first time I hadn't felt guilt.

Looking down at her panties on my lap, I smiled to myself and sipped whiskey again. That event had emboldened me. I now wanted to see Mom naked, planned on how to spy on her when she'd take a bath, and wondered what she'd look like. Playboy magazines were no longer as exciting. I had a real female in my house and I used her panties to find pleasure.

Standing, I returned the pastel yellow panties to the drawer and brushed my hands through the others, looking for one pair - another first for me. I found them at the bottom and pulled them out. Just holding them brought on tumescence.

They were full-cut, pure white, silk, with thin elastic at the waist and legs. Inside, the gusset was cotton-lined. I felt the stir of excitement just like I had three decades ago. These panties were the first in so many ways.

They were the first panties I actually stole from Mom's panty drawer, excited and nervous. I stuffed them into my jean pocket, saving them for later. And throughout the day I'd get horny just thinking about them. I would put my hand in my pocket and fondle them, their silkiness so exciting, and get an erection. It was Saturday. I was out with Jimmy and a couple of other friends, riding our bikes, exploring and having fun in the spring weather.

It was a new experience. I had a secret, erotic and exciting, and plans that made me ache with pent up need. The day couldn't go fast enough. Dinner took too long. Television shows weren't interesting. I had a pocketful of pleasure waiting.

Mom noticed, commenting on how I fidgeted, my restlessness, asking if I was worried about anything. I was careful to hide my erection.

Finally, it was time for bed. I couldn't brush my teeth fast enough. Waiting for Mom to go to bed was agonizing. And finally, the house was quiet. Heart thumping, I got out of bed, checked the hallway to make sure Mom's door was closed, her light out, then closed my bedroom door.

I switched the side lamp on, bent, picked up my jeans from the floor, and slowly pulled those silky panties from the pocket. They shimmered in the light. My erection throbbed. Excitement mounted. Placing Mom's panties on the bed, I stripped off my pajama bottoms and underwear. My cock stood out, high and proud. Excitement built, anticipation making my erection bob.

Holding Mom's panties up, I admired their shape, full, the line of the cotton gusset showing. She'd worn these panties. Turned on beyond anything before, I bent and slipped one foot into a leg opening, then the other, my pulse racing. Slowly, very slowly, I drew Mom's panties up. Soft silk caressed my legs. My cock strained as I pulled them up and over it. It was the first time wearing Mom's panties and it thrilled me. Silk caressed my ass. Her cotton gusset felt soft against my balls, and my erection tented the front.

Almost shaking with excitement, I touched myself, pressing my cock up against my stomach, soft, cool silk against me. Then I caressed my erection. It was so damn good, so damn erotic. Mom's panties felt like nothing I'd experienced before.

I got back in bed, on my back, and rubbed my cock slowly, looking at myself, admiring how her panties shimmered on me, how sensual they felt, so completely different from my underwear. My cock ached. Feeling lower, I pressed the crotch to my balls and rubbed, the cotton gusset soft, sensual. That's where Mom's pussy had been! My cock strained up. Too excited, lost in taboo act of wearing my mother's panties, I rolled onto my front. The first hump was amazing, my erection sliding over silk, her panties caressing my ass. Cock straining, I lifted my hips and rubbed just the tip, sliding it over smooth silk, and I groaned silently, so turned on, so excited. Need to cum took over. Pressing against the bed, I humped Mom's panties, cock sliding inside them, erection straining. Suddenly precum leaked and my tip slipped easily, damp, stimulating me. Lost in the erotic sensations, I humped the bed in her panties, pressure growing, my balls tightening and, with a grunt, ecstasy blossomed, my cock swelled, semen burned up and I came in her panties, spurting hot, slippery semen. Panting, I humped and came, spurting, my cum wet and spreading. I humped and spurted, humped and spurted to an incredible climax, peaking and slowing, panting, heart racing, and eventually slowed to a stop.

For a few moments, I luxuriated in the warm wetness, my erection fading, and the special peace that comes with release. It had been the most intense erotic experience of my life. When I finally got out of bed, I saw the wet stain on the sheet and the front of Mom's panties darkened with semen.

Taking another sip of whiskey, I played with Mom's silk panties in my hand and smiled at the memory. That event had solidified my fetish for panties and I still carried it today.

Tossing back the last of the whiskey, I stood and replaced Mom's panties in her drawer, closed it, and headed to my childhood bed. I enjoyed my soft erection. It brought back such strong memories. I remembered the time fondly, now without shame.

Chapter Three

For most of the next day I packed. Mom's possessions were divided up into two collections; one for the items I wanted to keep and would have sent to storage, another for donation to charity. Every item brought memories, some sweet, some sad. Every item took me back to a simpler time; a time without the stress of providing, of freedom and play and new experiences, of friends and girlfriends and first kisses, first touches, movies, popcorn.

As evening arrived, I stopped and sat on the couch, turned the television on, and called my wife. We chatted. She brought me up to speed on the kids and her schedule, and showing how well she knew me, told me to take more time packing. There were no pressing issues at home needing my attention - except for her. She missed me, especially at night.

With the call over and the television picture appearing, only slightly distorted, I thought again how lucky I was. Jessica was a wonderful wife, mother, and partner. I adored her. After almost two decades together we still loved each other, still loved intimacy, and Jessica was a marvelous lover. She was soft and sensual, randy at times, and much more inventive than I. I'd never been tempted by any other woman. I couldn't imagine any woman providing something I was lacking in our relationship, because there was nothing missing - intimacy or otherwise.

Standing, I wandered back to Mom's room. I hadn't touched it yet. It would be the last room to be packed. I was drawn back to her panty drawer and opened it.

Her pantyhose and stockings were neatly stacked on the side. Next to them were her garter belts; simple white ones, black ones, and underneath her body-shaping corsets, I saw her black lace garter. I pulled it out. It brought a sharp memory and with it, a return of warm arousal.

It was one of the rare nights Mom had gone out. The Meechers were having a cocktail party. Today, cocktail parties are almost nonexistent. Back then, women dressed up, men wore suits, and fancy cocktails were served while couples socialized just for the fun of it, trading stories, talking politics, complaining about golf handicaps, and planning charity events. Drinks were more than wine or beer. Martinis and gimlets and Rob Roys were served. Drinks had cherries or olives or pickled onions in them. Music played on turntables hidden inside polished wooden cabinets - furniture built for entertainment with vacuum tube radios and clever slots for vinyl albums, Perry Como playing, or The Platters singing about smoke in your eyes.

Mom had dressed up. Her green and black strapless dress was tight at the waist, flaring at her hips, and falling to below her knees. Her bust was hinted at, with just the top swells teasingly exposed. Her makeup was carefully applied, lipstick just so, her hair carefully coiffed into waves and pinned up at the sides. She was beautiful, even to me.

She was tired and happy and slightly tipsy when she came home, easy with a laugh. We watched television while I munched pretzels from a wooden bowl on the coffee table.

Mom sat next to me, her knee crossed and foot bobbing in the air. She sighed as she eased her high heels off. Through the nylons I saw her red-painted toenails that matched her fingernails.

Paying attention to the television, I reached for more pretzels and knocked the bowl off the coffee table. Pretzels littered the floor in front of the couch. I apologized and, pushing the coffee table aside, dropped to my knees to pick the pretzels up.

Mom uncrossed her leg and raised her feet, bending one back onto the couch. At that moment, I glanced up and saw Mom's black stocking, her knee, and higher up under her dress. The stockings ended high on her thighs and as I moved to gather pretzels, she lifted her other leg out of the way and I had an unobstructed view of her black panties and the black garter holding her stockings up. Mom's pussy pressed against the lacy black panties and through them I could see her brown pubic bush, so sexy and erotic.

Before I could blink, her hand pressed her dress down and the view was gone, but it stayed sharp in my mind, and that night I masturbated, spurting cum onto my stomach as I imagined touching her panties and feeling the sponginess of her pubes inside. What would it feel like?

She knew what I'd seen. She told me so much later. She knew what I was doing in my bedroom, too, although that was just a safe bet on her part. But it was her awareness of that event that changed, even intensified, my panty fetish.

Enjoying the memory, I replaced the black garter belt and brushed my hands through her panties again, looking for one pair in particular. There they were; soft pink, cotton, narrow elastic waist with a small white satin bow on the elastic, the material thin. I picked them up and as I did, an erection formed at the memory.

Fifteen years old.

On my bed, mid afternoon on a Saturday, with Mom out shopping for groceries, I borrowed a pair of her panties - rather risqué bikini style in the softest brushed cotton, blue with large white daisies printed on them - and was comfortably aroused lying on the bed, jeans and underwear pushed down to my thighs, with Mom's panties wrapped around my shaft, stroking myself with the soft material.

In my mind's eye, I pictured Mom wearing them. I imagined her pubes escaping from the top elastic and how the panties would hug her pussy, my cock straining. So lost in the daydream, I hadn't heard Mom return.

My bedroom door opened and Mom walked in, saying, "Ken, I could . . ." She stopped talking.

Mortified, I rolled over to hide my erection and her panties.

"When you've finished, come help me unpack," she said quietly, and backed out, the door closing behind her.

Shame flooded me. My erection wilted. I hurriedly dressed and shoved her panties under my pillow. How, I wondered, would I ever be able to face her? Face hot with embarrassment, I took a deep breath and headed to the kitchen.

Mom, bless her heart, made no mention of the event. She chatted away about meals and food prices and asked me to unpack a full paper grocery bag. Through kindness and consideration, Mom managed to ease my guilt and embarrassment, and life resumed. But, like a guillotine, her awareness hovered over my head.

It was later that evening when the subject came up, just not how I envisioned it.

Watching the television together, with Mom also reading Sunset magazine, she lowered the magazine into her lap and said, "I'm sorry, Ken. I should have knocked first. I did call out several times, but you didn't answer."

Shifting uncomfortably, I said, "It's okay, Mom," and hoped the subject would be dropped. It wasn't.

"It's perfectly normal," she commented.

I thought she was talking about masturbation until she added, "Just put them back in the laundry basket when you're finished with them."

My face flushed hot again. I was thankful when the subject wasn't pursued further. But that event changed us. For the next week I avoided my mother's panties and tried to forget about them. I couldn't, the erotic draw just too strong and, less than two weeks later, I borrowed a used pair from the laundry basket and experienced a wonderful orgasm unlike I'd had for a while.

One late-afternoon after school, I entered the house and yelled for Mom. I wanted to head out with Jimmy for a while.

From down the hall Mom called, "In here."

I approached her bedroom and, with her door ajar, I heard her moving around. I knocked. "Mom?"

"Come in."

When I pushed the door open, she said, "Sit on the bed." She passed me with her head tilted putting in an earring.

Mom was wearing a simple white bra and panties. Simple or not, they looked great on her, emphasizing her bust and the sexy pear shape of her ass. I sat on the bed trying not to stare.

"What did you want?" she said, picking up a hairbrush.

"Are you going out tonight?"

She brushed her hair, patting it, curling the ends, and sprayed it. "The Thompsons are having a get-together and invited me. I won't be out late."

Facing the mirror, Mom bent, and studied her hair. From behind, her buttocks shaped her panties, stretching them enough for a dip along her butt crack to form. She sat on the bench chair at her makeup desk and started applying eyeliner.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" she asked.

"Just that I'm heading out to meet Jimmy for a while."

"Okay. Dinner will be in the oven." She continued to apply makeup, then stood and walked over to the dresser. In that drawer, she took out black pantyhose and sat next to me on the bed. Casually, as if there was nothing strange about the situation, she put them on, one leg at a time, then stood and pulled the pantyhose up to her waist. The pantyhose pressed her panties to her body, outlining every sensual female curve and dip.

An erection threatened, my cock thickening. Before she noticed, I stood. "I'm off. Have fun," I said and left the house.

Time with Jimmy distracted me, but when I returned home and ate dinner, my mind went back to Mom. She'd seemed so comfortable getting dressed in front of me. Nothing in her tone of voice or how she looked at me said it was anything more than what had happened. Oddly, I liked watching her. Seeing a woman dress was new. The way Mom put on pantyhose was erotic to me, and I wanted to see her do it again.

I did. Over the next couple of months I found myself waiting for her to go change and would find a reason to talk to her. It became normal for me to sit on her bed and watch her. I got to see so many of her panties and bras, some chaste, some very alluring, and every once in a blue moon, I'd see the shadow of her full pubic bush inside her panties. Once, I saw her dark areolae through a lacy bra. Those were all arousing sights that caused erections, and I became comfortable with it, not running away to hide. Mom's panties became intertwined with my erotic pleasure.

But, one Saturday evening, everything changed. Everything.

Mom returned from a cocktail party. It was immediately apparent she was more than tipsy, laughing and smiling and chatting as she took off her coat and carefully hung it up. She talked about the party, telling me funny stories. I liked her in this mood. She was fun and happy.

She sat down on the couch rather hard and kicked off her high heels. She massaged her feet, regaling me with the inebriated antics of one uncoordinated guest trying to dance.

Leaning over, she picked up her high heels and said, "I'm going to change into something more comfortable," and continued with her commentary on the party, now giving me observations of Mrs. Berg flirting despite her husband being there, "and he's nothing to look at, either. I don't blame her. I can't imagine what it would be like to wake up to Fred Berg every morning!"

I followed her into her bedroom and sat on the bed. Mom chatted, comfortable with my presence, and started to undress. Watching a woman undress is even more erotic than watching them get dressed. Mom first removed her earrings, tilting her head this way and that, placing them in a small porcelain decorative dish. She reached behind her to unhook and unzip her skirt and, holding the waist, let it drop, then stepping out of it. That was when I saw her panties - soft pink, cotton, narrow elastic waist with a small white satin bow on the elastic, the material thin.

She peeled her flesh-colored pantyhose down, bending to remove her feet and her rear rounded out, the remarkable mound of her pussy emerging at the top of her thighs, and I got an erection.

Straightening, she tossed her pantyhose onto the dresser. My eyes were locked on the puffy front of her panties where her pubic bush was, the exciting delta that shaped soft pink cotton and my erection strained, confined uncomfortably in jeans.

"Ken? Ken!" Mom said. She smiled at me, unbuttoning her blouse. "Why don't you change for bed and we'll have popcorn and watch TV together?"

"Uh. Yeah. Okay," I mumbled. In my bedroom, I changed into pajamas, keeping my underwear on, waited for my erection to wane, and headed to the living room.

The sound of popcorn popping made me change direction. In the kitchen, Mom was at the stove shaking a Jiffy Pop on the stove, the aluminum cover expanding as popcorn formed, the scrumptious scent of it filling the kitchen. She was wearing her white terry bathrobe.

With hot popcorn and a soda for me, a glass of white wine for herself, we settled on the couch and watched Bewitched. It was while watching The Dick Van Dyke Show that Mom crossed one knee over the other and the bathrobe slipped open exposing her bare leg. I naturally followed it up and almost choked at the way her soft pink cotton panties peeked out of the gap in her bathrobe, her thighs hiding her crotch.

This was even more erotic. This was an illicit peek, more exciting. And I tried to be subtle as I stared. Unfortunately, an erection formed and underwear and pajamas weren't enough to hide it. I held the bottle of Coke in my lap, wishing I'd had the foresight to grab a pair of Mom's panties while she was out.

Mom uncrossed and re-crossed her knees the other way and, for a brief moment, I saw her crotch and how her pussy seemed to strain against soft pink cotton. The shape was indescribably erotic. My cock ached. For the rest of The Dick Van Dyke Show I kept the Coke bottle pressed to my lap.

When the show ended, I stood. "I think I'll go to bed, Mom," I told her, planning on hurrying away. But Mom stood, too.

She noticed. It was hard to miss. For just a moment there was silence. Then my mother smiled softly. "It's okay, Ken. It's perfectly natural and nothing to be embarrassed about."

I opened my mouth to disagree and she continued.

"Seeing a woman in panties and getting aroused is normal. It's why women wear lingerie and not tidy-whities." She glanced at the tent in my pajamas, then at me. "It's rather flattering."

Mom moved closer and shocked me.

"You like my panties." Her hand brushed against my cock. "I'll tell you a secret. Women get turned on by arousing men."

I held my breath. Then Mom gently brushed my erection again before closing her fingers around it, gently squeezing it.

"You're big," she said softly. "Your father was, too." She untied the belt of her robe and it fell open, exposing her soft pink bra and cotton panties, her bare stomach. My cock pulsed in her hand.

"Come," she ordered quietly.

I followed her, expecting to go to her bedroom. But no. She led me into my bedroom and turned to face me, taking my erection in her hand again over my pajamas, squeezing it gently. My cock strained. A pulse of pleasure hit me, and horniness took over, suppressing embarrassment.

"Can I see?" she asked.

I couldn't find my voice, so I nodded, my pulse racing.

Mom's fingers eased into the waist of my pajamas. She pulled my pajamas and underwear out and down, releasing my erection. It sprang up, strong, pointing up. I watched Mom's hand as she gently took me in her hand, her fingers wrapping around my shaft and I shuddered with excitement.

"You have a beautiful erection, Ken," she said softly.

Then she stroked me! I groaned quietly, my cock swelling. No one had touched me, let alone my mother. She was the first, and, God, did it feel good! Solidly under the control of horniness, I watched Mom stroke me, her touch light, almost delicate, and pleasure surged through me, my erection jerking. A bead of precum emerged and Mom rubbed it with the pad of her thumb. She edged closer to me.

"Are you close?" she asked.

I could only nod, my heart racing, heat blossoming, cock straining. Nothing in my life had been so exciting.

Then Mom took me over the top. In almost a whisper, she said, "You like panties." The fingers of her free hand pinched the elastic waist of her soft pink panties. "You like to cum in my panties," she whispered, pulling the waist away from her stomach. "Would you like to cum in my panties while I'm wearing them?"

She pulled the waist out and down, and I saw her thick, soft pubic bush in all its glory for the first time. I saw how her gusset cradled her vulva inside, the delta shape of her so sexy. So excited at the erotic sight, at actually seeing my mother's pussy, the first one I'd ever seen, I couldn't stop my reaction. I came, cock swelling. Semen surged up my shaft as Mom stroked me. The crown swelled, and cum exploded, a long spurt shooting and landing on Mom's pubes, thick and white. Ecstasy made me gasp and I spurted again, another rope of cum spurting onto her bush. Semen dripped down her pubes slowly and I spurted again, gasping, gut clenching. Mom stroked my pulsing cock, almost milking me, each strong spurt shooting more semen onto her pussy and panties. My knees weakened, legs trembled. I was panting, my erection spurting, pleasure wracking my body as Mom stroked me. My orgasm peaked and passed, pulses weakening, cum oozing out in weak spurts.

Mom let the waist of her panties go and semen made a dark stain on the front all the way down to her gusset. She released my softening penis, leaned in and kissed my cheek, whispering, "Sleep well," before wrapping her robe around her and leaving.

I stood in the middle of the bedroom stunned. Too many firsts swamped my mind and at the top of them was seeing my mother's light brown pussy dripping white cum. It took a long time to fall asleep that night.