A Million to One

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Big Tits

The computer screen froze on what was I thought at first, a comical image of my mother; her slow internet connection buffering, causing her face to be locked in position as her words in the video call carried on. As the seconds drew on however, her mouth open, lips painted red, tongue visible, the suggestive nature of her expression became more pervasive.

That I allowed my mind to imagine her sucking cock, my own mother; or dare I say it, wantonly awaiting a mouthful of cum, was both troubling and exciting at once. Before I’d thought through my feelings (or my actions for that matter), I took a screen-grab of her visage seconds before the video updated and matched her cadence.

“…there’s so much you can help me with Will; are you staying one night or two?”

I drew myself back into the conversation, allowing my deviant fantasies to subside for the time being.

“Well I can’t get any more hours at work until Monday afternoon, so I guess I’ll stay the whole weekend. Come back Monday morning if you’ll have me?” I added.

She smiled and it was good to see her happy. Nearly a whole year had gone by since Dad’s passing; Mom having taken the insurance left to her and with the sale of the family home in the city, moved to the North of the state, closer to where she’d grown up. I was with her when she’d bought the property. A too big, too old house, full of far too many problems for a single woman, or so I had thought. She however saw it as a way to keep busy. To devote her life to a grand project much as she’d devoted the last few years caring for Dad.

“Wonderful Honey. We can start on the staircase. There’s the garden. Those blackberry bushes down at the creek are getting out of hand. The laundry door needs fixing and…”

“Mom stop,” I laughed. “You can show me when I arrive.”

She grinned once more and again I focused on her mouth. The lipstick. Her makeup in general. She looked good. Really good, and I had to remind myself it was my mother I was thirsting after all of a sudden. I’d been single too long it would seem.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” she beamed and lifted a finger to pull a fallen strap of her top back onto her shoulder. Her top. What actually was she wearing? So thin a strip of material, a vast amount of the flesh of her arms and chest exposed, a hint of cleavage. I found myself once more disappearing down the rabbit hole of fantasy. “What time can I expect you?” she asked and I informed her of my estimated arrival factoring in traffic and with that we said our goodbyes. At least we attempted to.

Her hand waved at me as it drew towards the camera on the laptop I knew she was using to video call and I in turn motioned to disconnect our communication, pausing as I saw her tilt the screen downwards slightly, her hand moving away from the computer as she rose.

“Mom, you haven’t hung up,” I stated and there was no response. Again stating the fact, louder this time as I watched her move back from the desk where the laptop was situated. Immediately I realized the problem. She’d muted me; not ended the call. Accidentally I presumed, but her actions did allow me to answer a question I’d posed moments before.

It was a slip, or more appropriately, a baby doll. White, and made of what I assumed was a translucent nylon. I could’ve disconnected. Should’ve, in that I was essentially snooping. A son voyeuristically surveilling his mother’s movements, however benign they began. It didn’t last. With most of the room displayed now that the camera no longer aimed upwards diagonally, I watched her move to a bookcase, her back to me as she browsed the shelves. Barely covering her buttocks, the babydoll revealed her underwear, the lower cheeks of her ass protruding around the hem of what I could clearly see (despite the relatively low-res camera) were lace panties.

The instinct to disconnect lest she see my face still on her laptop as she turned from the bookcase was overridden by the fascination of watching; of illicitly spying, and leaning forward I allowed the events to play out. Seemingly oblivious to any light from the laptop, she headed to the couch and climbing upon, stretched out across two cushions, her bare legs slightly bent as she opened the novel to a seemingly saved page. Was the show over? I once more called out, a final acknowledgement to my presence now she’d settled and was more likely to hear. Nothing. I sat back in my chair and smiled at her indiscretion, a funny story I’d relay when I arrived the next day. That is, I would’ve until she moved.

Her free hand, initially upon her belly, slowly moved up her torso until it was upon her breast and there it remained for a moment, still. It could’ve been innocent I supposed as I once more debated hanging up, the weight of guilt growing on my conscience. What came next clearly wasn’t. Lifting her hand to turn a page, she abandoned her breast and set down upon her upper thigh, caressing the thin material that covered her groin for a moment before casually lifting it up her belly kayseri seks hikayeleri to expose her panties.

“Oh Jesus!” I exclaimed and leaned forward, my hand clutching the mouse in preparation of closing the app, my eyes fixed on her now revealed pelvis.

I knew what was happening, what was occurring before me, a foot from my eyes yet a hundred miles to the north, but none of it seemed real. How could it? Whatever way I looked at it though, I was watching my own mother put her hand down the front of her panties. No motion at first, just a bulge in the lace crotch as her fingers I assumed pressed her labia, her hand holding the novel deftly turning the pages. And then action. The movement of her arm, her wrist raising slightly, hand delving further then back.

“Oh fuck!” I exhaled as I acknowledged my swelling, my own hand dropping to my thigh to encourage my growth. “Oh fuck it,” I whispered to my empty room as I quickly unbuttoned my pants, unzipping and allowing my now fully erect cock to spring forth.

Pages turned, her hand settling into a steady but measured pace as I in turn stroked my engorged cock. It felt so wrong, spying on my mother masturbating, yet despite the familial connection, the screen somehow made it impersonal. She could’ve been any woman on any random porn site I supposed. A hidden camera almost or a cam girl performing for her audience, I told myself. But no. Because it WAS my mother, it made it all the more hot, all the more forbidden. My dick about as hard as I got, pre-cum leaking from the eye coating my underside, my eyes fixed on her constantly moving hand.

“I’m muted,” I whispered to myself. “Not her!” Taking my hand from my cock, I raised the volume on my computer to its maximum and heard her microphone picking up the faintest sound of her breathing, a sigh as she allowed the book to fall to her breast, her head arching back into the sofa as she quickened her masturbatory pace. I was close, as I furiously jerked my cock. It seemed she was closer. The paperback slipped from her torso to the floor as she slid a hand inside the bust of her babydoll to clutch a boob. Her hips lifted, thrusting into the stimulation her fingers provided, humping whatever imaginary invocation she had chosen or the book had inspired.

“…oh fuck…oh fuck,” I heard my mother swear no louder than a whisper, and as I pondered if I’d ever heard Mom say ‘fuck’ before, I came all over the front of my t-shirt.

“Jesus!” I exclaimed, both at the pleasure and the mess I made as great ropes of semen soaked my clothing. On screen Mom was clearly having her own orgasm, her legs twitching, coming together to trap her hand between her thighs, still deep inside her panties. She’d exposed both breasts, impressive in their size though on her back and separated, and casually she ran her fingertips across a nipple, then the other.

I didn’t want to look away. My cock remaining hard, ready to go another round should she choose to continue. I was disappointed when she released the vicelike lock on the wrist in her underwear, and startled into action when she, without warning, rolled off the couch, her face looking in the general direction of the camera. Was I fast enough? I’d certainly never moved as quick to close a screen since a teenager and looking at something I shouldn’t on the family computer. Standing up it came back to me in a flash. This wasn’t the first time I’d been aroused by my mother, was it!?


Turning onto the long gravel drive of Mom’s property, I looked down at the time and was surprised at my accuracy. 10:30 a.m on the dot. The exact time I’d predicted and it gave me somewhat a sense of satisfaction. Pulling up in front of her house, nothing dramatic had been done to the premises in the two months or so since I’d last visited and I immediately felt the sting of guilt for having not done so more often. Breathing in the smog free air of the country, the scent of the trees and the heat of the morning sun on my face, I could understand my mother’s desire for her change of residence, the city quickly becoming a mere memory in my mind.

The front door unlocked, I entered the hallway and the relative cool of the interior of the house calling out my arrival to silence, the ticking of a clock the only response. My hand brushed across the back of the couch as I passed through the living room on into the kitchen, my dick twitching in acknowledgement of the role it had played, Mom laying upon its cushions only a day before. The door to the laundry opened as I skirted the dining table and she entered the room, her appearance and the accompanying look on her face, evidence my arrival wasn’t expected.

She was topless, wearing only what I first assumed to be black opaque pantyhose but on closer inspection were nothing of the sort. Footless tights in fact. And definitely not opaque. A perfect triangle of pubic hair was visible through the nylon and although it seemed an eternity I stared directly at her groin, I quickly drew my eyes up her body. Her hands held a black bra and what looked to be a shirt, burgundy of color, and it was these she used to attempt to cover her bare breasts. Not before I’d taken in their size; their shape; the pinky brown shade of her nipples.

Her face lit up red even before she’d released her exclamation of surprise at my presence. “What are you doing here?” she questioned, not letting her undressed state prevent her from approaching and offering a kiss, letting out a nervous giggle as my stubbly beard scraped her cheek. “Ooh scratchy,” she smiled.

“It’s 10:30. We agreed 10:30,” I unnecessarily offered in my defense. “Remember, you said you wanted to go to the farmers market or something before lunch.”

“Oh. Of course I did. It’s that time already? The day’s slipped away from me.”

“Clearly,” I laughed, looking back down at her state.

“Oh!” She slapped my arm. “Just give me a second.”

Passing me her blouse, the bra and a strategically placed hand now the only covering of her breasts, she turned her back to me and set about putting it on. It afforded me the opportunity of eyeing her ass, and I took full advantage. The thin material cinching between her buttocks, the small gusset at the crotch discernible. I’d surely seen a better ass in my life, but right then and there, I couldn’t think when.

Clasping the bra behind her, she turned back to face me, seemingly comfortable that her nipples were still clearly visible through the lace cups and I prayed she didn’t notice the growing hardness at my groin as I passed her the shirt. Too soon they were covered, left with merely the swell of her tits against the shirt as it was buttoned.

“I’ll just grab my shoes and we can get going,” she said after enquiring about the drive up and I pottered about the kitchen, looking out the window as I awaited her return. When she did, it wasn’t what I expected and I struggled with the correct words to explain the situation.

“You don’t think you’ve forgotten something?” I asked as I waved my hand in the direction of her legs, still only covered by the hose.

“What?” she asked, looking down at herself.

“Ah, a skirt or something?” I offered, feeling my face begin to burn as I stared once more at her pussy and large thatch of pubic hair.

“They’re pants!” she declared.

“Ok,” I smiled. “You don’t think they’re a bit, I don’t know, see-through?”

“They’re footless tights,” she insisted. “They’re pants,” she repeated before raising a knee to inspect their opacity, both of us seeing her skin clearly through the nylon. “I mean they’re a little sheer. That’s why I didn’t wear panties!” she admitted almost proudly, pulling her tights up at the waist to emphasize the point. “I don’t want people seeing my underwear.”

I could hardly believe what she was telling me, let alone showing me; the already thin material made thinner as it was pulled against her body, sliding between the folds of her vagina. I was aware her eyes were on me and it was probably my dumbfounded expression that caused her to rethink her appearance.

“You think I should change?” she asked.

I didn’t want her to. I would’ve been happy for her to wear them all the time around me. But in public? I wanted her for myself, not for other men to leer at.

“I don’t know,” I managed. “Maybe check it out in the mirror, see what you think.”

“Ugh, alright Dad!” she exhaled sarcastically as she turned on her heel and headed back the way she’d come. “You’re not leaving the house in that!” she stated in a gruff voice, possibly quoting my grandfather. Her now swaying ass once more presented to me, I admittedly took my fill of the delight. “Check out the laundry door to outside while I change,” she called over her shoulder as she mounted the stairs. “It gets jammed.”

I didn’t move until she was out of sight, wanting to savor every second of her body. Fifty-one years old and she looked as good as my friends and I observed when I was in high school. I walked into the laundry and headed toward the back door my eyes caught the clothing in piles upon the bench-top. Obviously sorted for washing, it was the smallest pile that piqued my interest. I recognized them immediately. Now seen live for the first time, the white lace panties from our video chat. I swallowed as I stopped and stared. Three or four other pairs below, varied colors. All skimpy.

I’d been in this position before. Memories of past transgressions flooded back. A certain time in my life, more than a decade before. The same woman. The same items. With a dry mouth I relented and noting how they sat upon the pile, deftly lifted her underwear from where they sat. I was aware of the indiscretion. The invasion of her privacy. But it was my cock that was doing all the thinking then and there, and it directed me to lift them to my face.

That distinct feminine scent. Alluring, overpowering. I pressed my nose and mouth into the gusset and inhaled as though they were my last breaths. And what a way to go! The aromatic flavor of my mother’s arousal, of her orgasm. Trapped in the fibers of the delicate silky material. My dick ached to be free from its confines and dropping a hand I encouraged its swelling, grinding my fingers along my length.

“What do you think, is it fixable?” Mom asked from outside the laundry, giving me just enough time to throw her panties back upon the pile and rush to the back door. In the process of swinging it open, she entered behind me and I turned to see her run her eyes across the unwashed clothing. Did she notice her underwear in a different position? It didn’t seem evident, though it was clear they’d moved. Thankfully the problem with the door was obvious, the gradual movement of the entire house causing the frame to jam and I informed her it was an easy fix.

“Oh good,” she smiled before looking down at her current attire. “Is this better?”

Given permission to inspect her appearance, I devoured the short floral sun dress she’d changed into. Buttons running from her cleavage to the cinched waist, the length made it half way down her thighs and I couldn’t disguise the fact I thought she looked beautiful, even telling her so.

“Beautiful?” she quoted me and felt myself blush.

“I mean the dress is beautiful…and you too I guess,” I stumbled. “You look nice is all.”

She laughed at my awkwardness, furrowing. “Well I’ll take the compliment either way,” she said, smiling as she ran a hand over the material. “My friend in town makes them. She’s so talented. She does everything; lingerie.” Mom added as her only other example and left it at that, leaving me wondering if it was some general hint.

“It’s maybe a bit young for me, the style. What do you think? Especially now I’m not a milf anymore!”

The comment made me choke and I had to ask her to repeat it.


“The style. It’s a skater dress I think,” she elaborated the wrong part of my question.

“No, the other thing,” I stated.

“Oh. A milf. Well I’m not,” she explained as we headed back through the house.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, collecting my keys.

“A Mother In her Late Forties!” she declared. “A milf. I’m in my fifties now remember Honey. Haven’t you heard the term?”

My laugh was nervous but genuine.

“Are you serious?” I asked.


I shook my head as she stopped on the porch. “That’s, er…not what it stands for.”

“Yes. Milf. Mother In Late Forties,” she insisted, incredulous.

“Mom,” I paused. “It stands for mother I’d like to…f..” I concluded, assuming she could fill in the gaps and it was like a lightbulb came on in her head.

“Oh my god!” she exclaimed after it had truly sunk in. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty much,” I replied as we left the porch and made it to my car.

“That’s why I get those looks. I’ve been using it with everyone!”

I laughed at her naivety, her embarrassment. She was becoming more attractive to me by the minute and I began to realize something. I didn’t just love her. I was falling in love with her.

And there was a vast difference.


The farmers market was just as Mom had described. Fresh quality produce the like we couldn’t imagine finding in the city. I carried her basket and was soon loaded up with everything she’d desired and more as we visited several stores. Introduced to the vendors she knew well, a humorous altercation when Mom chose a particularly large and phallic shaped carrot as opposed to the rest in the bunch. The highlight of our trip however when the breeze picked up and swept my mother’s dress up around her waist. I was standing behind her at the time and was given a heavenly view of her bare buttocks before her hands returned her modesty amid her squeal. Yes, bare buttocks. I assumed she wore a thong of course, the limited time she was exposed not allowing me to detect its color, but it was thrilling nonetheless and had me aching for her all the more.

After a lunch I suggested I’d get to work on the laundry door but Mom was determined for us to start on a major project. “It’s been annoying me the longest,” she divulged concerning the staircase. “I get splinters from the handrail all the time and the balustrade needs re-staining.”

Agreeing it was probably the most time consuming of all the chores she’d set out, we found the necessary sandpaper amongst Dad’s tools that came along on the move and after laying down a drop sheet along the staircase, debated who’d start where?

To my disappointment, Mom wanted to begin at the bottom and have me at the top. I’d been hoping for the opposite, potentially affording me an extended upskirt while we worked; but as we began, with music playing in the background, I found there were some benefits to the process.

She began on the newel-post, the bottom baluster, and kneeling as she sanded, I was able to clearly see down her dress. She’d apparently unbuttoned more than previous, possibly due to the heat, so without making it overly obvious I was occasionally perving, I delighted in the braless sway of her breasts as she moved.

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