Mom and I Go on Vacation

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My parents stopped fighting when I turned sixteen. It’s not like they started getting along; they just stopped fighting. They were polite and civil, like business acquaintances who mildly disliked each other but understood decorum would help get them through the day. Over the next two years I would, through observation, their occasional comments, and remarks of friends and family members, piece together most of what happened; I would not learn all the details until the events described in this story.

On the evening before my sixteenth birthday Mom and Dad were set to look at a car they were considering buying for me. Dad was going to bring a mechanic friend. Dad did not show. He said he was detained at the office.

Dad was a vice-president of Citizen’s Bank. His boss was Beverly D’Angelo. Ms. D’Angelo, you always called her Ms. D’Angelo, was formidable. She was fifteen years Dad’s senior, looked and dressed like a battleship, and, as far as I could discern, had no sense of humor. She was the bank’s owner, chairperson, and president. She’d built Citizen’s from scratch and its eight branches prospered in Cobb County, Georgia, despite competition from an array of national banks.

Mom was mad because she believed, correctly, that detained at the office meant that Dad was cheating on her. Dad and Ms. D’Angleo were…? I’m not sure if I know the correct word. His mistress doesn’t come close. Her master certainly doesn’t capture it; Dad was definitely not in charge. Gigolo is too trivial. Paramour might be best. They were…? Again the word eludes me. Lovers ain’t right; intimates ain’t right either. They had sex – she was apparently voracious in the sack – but she was in charge and outside the bedroom they showed almost no affection for each other. Propriety was the rule. They always seemed to be, even years after she sold the bank and they married, boss and subordinate.

Mom had come home crying, but by the time Dad arrived, steeled for Mom’s onslaught, she had rebooted. She showered, her hair was in place, her make-up, always minimal, perfect. I was asleep when Mom, her presentation imperturbable, made Dad an offer. They would keep the marriage together until I went to college. They would live parallel lives in the same house. He could be detained at the office as much as he wanted, but he would do nothing, like he had that night, to publicly embarrass her; she would do the same for him.

Dad said he would think about it. The next day, having consulted with Ms. D’Angelo, he agreed.

Remarkably, it worked. Mom and Dad were polite, but didn’t bother with each other’s business. Dad seemed to age, becoming more staid by the month, which is how I suspect Ms. D’Angleo liked it.

The effect on Mom was even more telling. Making plans for life as single woman, she took a job in the Cobb County Parks Department. She quickly became a department favorite and when the position of Assistant to the Director of Public Relations opened, she was promoted. She became a fixture in our community, appearing before civic organizations and schools touting the Parks Department and its services, winning over people with her enthusiasm, sense of humor, and husky sexy voice.

She also came to live her job. She returned to the gym, worked herself back into shape, went for a run each morning. Her weekends were filled with the activity she promoted: horse back riding, kayaking, canoeing, hiking.

My friends started commenting about the new Mom. She was, I knew, to a large extent the old Mom who had rediscovered the joy of the things she has surrendered when she became the proper wife of man of stodgy semi-importance. But there was a new Mom there also; her confidence grew, she was outgoing, friendly, perky. She discarded the regalia of a banker’s wife, cut her blonde hair short and practical, favored jeans, shirts and shorts.

Dad kept his word; he did nothing to embarrass Mom, but he spent most of his time at the office and often accompanied Ms. D’Angelo out of town. When he did Mom was, at first, sad and wistful. I’d hang with her, try to cheer her up. Over time that changed. Her ceaseless activity in the community brought her an array of new friends; she became a skilled cook in a number of Asian cuisines; she planted a vegetable garden; she taught at the Wright Environmental Education Center.

More then anything else, however, she went outdoors. At first it was when Dad went away for a weekend that she’d head for north Georgia to rock climb, or canoe, or kayak, or hike. Soon it was most every weekend.

And in the process of Mom rediscovering the outdoors, I discovered it. I had always been most comfortable in front of a computer. The first few times Mom went out-of-town she asked me to come along, saying she needed the company and, I suspect, not trusting me home alone. At first I protested, I was a teenager after all, I protested everything, but after I stopped whining and paid attention I found Mom was right, the outdoors was great. Over the next illegal bahis few years I became Mom’s regular companion as we explored the countryside. I also found a bit of the activist in me and she and I became active in the Atlanta Audubon Society and Environment Georgia.

During my senior year I set my sights on the University of Vermont with the hope, on graduation, of getting into the Vermont Law School and its environmental law program. I felt some guilt about leaving Mom, but my guilt was assuaged by Mom’s enthusiastic support of the idea. When I received my letter of acceptance Mom gleefully jumped into my arms.

I graduated high school, worked that summer for the Parks Department, a job Mom procured for me, and spent more time than ever with her. It was on one of these trips, camping at the Crooked River Park, thinking of how much I’d miss these excursions with her, that I made the suggestion that would change my life.

“Mom, you haven’t had a real vacation in years. Why don’t we drive up to Vermont together? We could take a week, ten days, and stop at some of the places we’ve talked about visiting.”

And that is how in August, four months after I turned eighteen, that Mom and I came to pack up my car and head north.

Our first stop was the New River in North Carolina. We had planned a two day canoe trip, camping overnight in the New River State Park. During the first afternoon we saw a thunderstorm heading our way and lost our bet that we could beat it to the campground. By the time we got to the shore and erected our tent, we were drenched. We crawled inside, turned our backs to each other, changed clothes.

Mom lay down, but she was shivering. I crawled up behind her and wrapped my arms around her, trying to warm her up.

Mom’s not a big woman – five foot seven inches, 121 pounds – and I was able to envelop her in my grasp. I lay an arm across her chest. She shifted, a braless breast pressed against my forearm. I began to pull away, but Mom had laid her arm over mine and snuggled up against me.

“Thank you, that’s better, it feels nice.”

So we were quiet, trying to warm each other up, and Mom’s breast was pressed against my arm. I began evaluating it. Nice size, not too large, B cup probably. I would have thought ladies her age all drooped, but Mom’s were firm. Her nipples, I figured from the cold, were semi-erect.

And I began thinking about her life after I got to college. As a few of my friend’s had commented, Mom was a good looking lady. With me out of the house and her marriage dissolving, she’d be dating again. Guys would be lining up for this 39 year old: outgoing, up-beat, positive, ready laugh, slim, flat stomach, green eyes, sexy voice. More than any of that, however, Mom radiated life. She was observant and questioning, her mind alert, curious, flexible, open, enthusiastic about anything new and, despite sometimes being scatter-brained, she learned easily. Dad loved for things to stay the same; Mom looked for variety and change.

Was I ready for a step-dad? I was not ready for a step-dad.

I woke the next morning to the sound of Mom building a fire. While the storm had broken over night, our stuff was still wet. Mom had hung our clothes on a tree branch to dry. I joined her and after breakfast, we packed up and headed down river.

* * * *

Our next stop was the Kanawha State Forest in West Virginia for the Black Bear Weekend, two days of mountain biking with the West Virginia Mountain Biking Association. The second night, around a campfire, everyone was tired and dirty and the beer was flowing freely. I was talking to a good looking red head when I noticed a couple of dudes, they looked college age, flirting with Mom. She was a sight: her jersey and shorts were covered with mud, her knees cut, specks of dirt on her face, pink nail polish chipped. Still she seemed to be enjoying the attention and flirted right back, laughing at their jokes, laying a hand on their chests. I found myself getting annoyed – these guys were hitting on Mom – excused myself, and wandered her way. There I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she leaned into me, kissing my cheek. She introduced me as John. The guys hung around for a few more minutes, but wandered off when they figured they weren’t going to score.

In the tent that night, as I had in North Carolina, I rolled over and held Mom.

“You’re nice and warm,” she said, “feels nice.”

“Those guys out there, they were interested in you.”

It took her a second to get my meaning and then she laughed, that husky throaty laugh of hers. “Oh c’mon son. I’m an old lady, I could be their mother.”

“Mom, you’re a good-looking woman. Guys are always checking you out.”

Mom rolled on to her side and looked at me.

“So you think your Mom’s a fox you gotta protect, do you?”

“Well, I meant attractive in a Mom kinda way.”

She smiled. “Demoted from fox to Mom-kinda-way so quickly. My poor ego can barely sustain the illegal bahis siteleri blow.”

Mom saw me trying to craft a response.

“Well son, before you put your foot back in your mouth, why don’t you give me a leg rub. I am some sore.”

And, as the fading noise of the party gave way to the sounds of the forest at night, that is what I did.

* * * *

Our next stop was Pennsylvania Amish country for two days of road cycling. Instead of camping we stayed at the Richmond House Bed and Breakfast in New Holland. Riding with a local bicycle club we put in eighty-five miles the first day. On our return Mom showered, emerging from the bathroom in a pink shirt, white pants, and sandals. There was a healthy glow to her skin.

We had dinner at a restaurant named, I kid you not, Lickity Split, shared an ice cream sundae, and headed back to the room. Mom returned to the bathroom to get ready for bed. There, through the door she had left half-open so we could continue our conversation, I saw her reflection in a bedroom mirror. She was naked, bending down to pick up a flannel shirt. My eyes were drawn to her ass. Mom had a great ass: skin smooth, symmetrical, rounded at the top and bottom, shapely, taut and firm, and set high on her body. What was Mom? I’d guess 34-26-34. She put on the shirt.

I changed and although the room had two beds, she asked if I wouldn’t mind sleeping next to her. She said she liked the warmth of my body. I, of course, assented, taking her in my arms. She feel asleep first and I lay there, thinking about the dudes who had flirted with her last night. It had probably been years since Mom had sex. After I got to college would she try to make up for lost time? I’d seen the ways guys looked at her. I had a few prurient thoughts about the ass separated from my penis by only a flannel shirt.

* * * *

The final leg of our journey was a three day hike on Vermont’s Long Trail. The weather was perfect and the days glorious as we walked a small portion of this wonder. We were walking in the middle of the week and so had the trail and its abundant wildlife mostly to ourselves. While it was before the leaves changed, the scenery was still magnificent.

On the second day we camped by Duck Brook Shelter, next to a small water fall and pond. We were the only people there. By this point Mom no longer needed to ask; during

the night I held her body to mine. When I woke I wasn’t surprised to find her gone – she usually got up before I did and prepared breakfast – but when I poked my head out of the tent she wasn’t there. I pulled on my shorts and shoes and headed for the water, thinking Mom might be hoping to catch a moose come for an early morning drink.

I found her there. She was swimming, wearing one of my tee-shirts. Her sleek athletic form moved effortlessly through the water. I didn’t hide, but I didn’t alert her to my presence. I just watched. She was, I thought, quite a beautiful woman.

After about ten minutes she stopped, stood, and headed for the shore. The wet tee-shirt, now near transparent, clung to her, outlining her slender build. She was naked underneath. I could see her breasts, which stood high on her chest, and her full erect dark nipples. I could see the dark thatch of hair between her legs. Her skin, the result of the exercise, was flushed red. Water was running down her body.

Good lord she was striking. And sexy. How could Dad prefer Ms. D’Angelo, the tug boat, when this sleek sexy destroyer was available?

Then she saw me.

“How long have you been standing there?” she shouted.

“Just got here,” I lied.

“Well don’t stare. It’s rude. Make yourself useful. Get my towel.”

I followed her eyes to the right. A towel was hanging on a tree branch.

I grabbed it and approached Mom, struggling mightily to keep my eyes on hers. She covered the top of her head with her towel and dried her hair. Then she turned around, faced the pond, and continued to dry herself. Water was dripping down her body, flowing across her back and over her butt. Her ass, high and firm, was clearly outlined in the shirt.

Was she aware of how sheer this thing was?

Was I ogling my mother?

Her back still towards me, she said, “The water’s cold, but clean. You should try it. It’s a refreshing way to get up in the morning.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She turned back to me. Again I concentrated, trying to keep my attention on her face, but as we headed back to the tent I slowed, followed her, looking at Mom’s tight firm body.

I thought I’d gotten away with it, but when we got back Mom, playfully, snapped the towel at me. “I told you, its not polite to stare. Why don’t you get the fire ready. I’m going to change.”

She disappeared into the tent.

* * * *

We finished our three days on the trail that evening and drove to Burlington, the terminus of our trip. We also ended our string of rustic accommodations, checking into one of canlı bahis siteleri those national chain suite hotels. That night Mom and I grabbed a pizza, had a few beers, and headed back to the room. She pushed off her shoes and got onto the bed, fully clothed. She curled up, suddenly sad.

“Come hold me.”

I did.

We were quiet. Then Mom was crying. Not bawling, but gentle tears.

“Mom, you okay?”

“Yeah, I know I’m being silly, but I’ve had a wonderful time and I’m going to miss you so much and I’m not sure I want to go home.”

And then she cried harder and then the entire story of my father and her, detail after detail, gushed from her. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, holding her while she talked and cried, stroking her hair, occasionally grunting to affirm I was listening. And although I can’t really take credit, that turned out to be exactly what she needed. Finally, cried out, exhausted, she fell asleep. I sat up awhile, thinking about what she’d said. I had my own bed, but when I went to sleep I pulled the blanket back and slipped next to her, holding her for another night.

* * * *

The next day Mom played tourist while I attended orientation. Everyone was talking about the party that night at Phi Phi Phi, its annual event welcoming incoming freshmen. It sounded great, but I couldn’t see abandoning Mom. When I got back to the hotel I learned that Mom had heard about it; it was the talk of the town and Burlington, I would discover, was a very small town.

Mom suggested I go. I told her no, I would not leave her alone. She said don’t be silly, she’d be fine. I suggested she come with me. She told me college boys do not go to parties with their mothers. I pointed out that most college boys don’t have moms as cool as her and, who knew, maybe she’d get lucky.

Mom laughed. “Really, an old lady like me.”

“Well Mom, you’re not old, you’re beautiful, and college guys dig hot older chicks.”

Mom, at least, did not seem repulsed by the suggestion.

“Think of it as revenge on Dad. Pick up a young kid, show him a good time.”

Mom and I went to a Lebanese restaurant, shared a bottle of wine, and she finally agreed to go, saying it was only so I would go. She’d wander around for a few minutes, leave.

* * * *

When we got there I noticed a cute slender blonde talking with a group of friends. I thought I caught her looking at me. My eyes wandered her way several times and it seemed like she was occasionally glancing at me. When Mom excused herself to go to the bathroom I took the opportunity to introduce myself. Her name was Sandy. We started talking. Over Sandy’s shoulder I saw Mom come out of the frat house, see me talking to Sandy, nod, and wander off, giving me the opportunity to make time with this cutie.

The crowd at the party increased. I saw Mom a few times, eventually settling into a conversation with a big hulking kid who seemed completely fixated on her. The way he looked at her, well, he was interested and when the two of them left together I felt something akin to jealously.

Sandy invited me back to her place. We settled on her couch, drank her excellent French press coffee, talked. She was native to Vermont, starting her second year at the university, intending to major in chemistry. The conversation was interesting and increasingly flirty. Soon I had an arm around her. I kissed her lips, nuzzled her neck, licked her ear, sucked on her shoulders. She pulled my shirt over my head and lapped my nipples. Then she pulled her shirt over her head and I ran my hands over her exquisite body, then squeezed and licked her firm full Soon we were in her bedroom, my face buried in her cunt.

I like to think I’m a pretty good pussy eater – I love feasting on a woman’s sex – and Sandy was digging it, squirming, digging her hands in my hair. She was incredibly responsive. Whapping her clit with my tongue, finding, then stroking her g-spot with two fingers, I brought her to several orgasms, finishing with her squirting into my mouth and hollering loud enough, I thought, to be heard throughout the building. Finally she cupped my face, moved me away from her clit, and said, between gulps of breath, “No more, no more.”

I brought her down slowly, licking lightly around her sex, like a cat with a small bowl of milk. When I was done she was still awhile, breathing, enjoying her body, laying her head on my shoulder. Then we began kissing again, she stroked my cock, and opened a drawer in the table by her bed. She handed me a condom. But there was a problem. My dick had deflated, it was only half hard.

Embarrassed, I said nothing. Sandy looked at my penis, understood my sudden silence, and said, “Let’s see if we can help this bad boy along.” She took me in her mouth and while it took awhile, she got me fully erect, pushed the condom over my dick, straddled me, and slid her pussy onto my dick.

I thrust twice, came. I couldn’t believe it. Me? Premature ejaculation? I hadn’t feel the pleasure of an orgasm, but I’d definitely come. I never had premature ejaculation. I was mortified. My dick was also incredibly sensitive. I put my hands on her ass, stopping her movements.

“You okay?’ she asked.

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