Hot Summer Housework with Mom
As I followed my Mother toward the ‘storage room’ at the end of the hallway, I couldn’t help but smile a little to myself. Yeah, it was indeed gonna suck spending a beautiful July afternoon clearing out and organizing the avalanche of junk that had accumulated in that small room over the course of 15 years. That’s how long Mom and I had lived together in our modest two bedroom house. A house she bought (with lots of help from her parents) after divorcing my alcoholic father when I was just three years old.
For 15 years, our ‘storage room’ as we called it, had been our repository for all of life’s odds and ends. If we didn’t want to throw something away – but didn’t know what else to do with it – into the storage room it went. Now however the small room was nearly filled from floor to ceiling, and Mom had determined that we were going to wrestle it under control before I left for college next month.
But there was one very silver lining to this whole situation, and my smile broadened, as my eyes roved up and down my Mother’s petite form, coming to rest on her shapely derrière. Beneath the taut, black fabric of her yoga pants, I could clearly make out the tantalizing triangle of a lacy, hot-pink thong. Yes, for the next 3 to 6 hours, I was going to have a first-class, unrestricted view of the tightest, hottest little ass I’d ever seen. The ass I’d fantasized about countless times in perverse masturbatory ecstasy. The ass that belonged to my sweet, beautiful Mother.
2.
“Ta-Daaa!” she exclaimed swinging the door open wide, and turning back to look at me. Fortunately, I’d become adept at anticipating such sudden movements, and managed to avert my eyes from her ass just in the nick of time. “Hey what are you smiling about?” she looked at me quizzically.
“Oh nuthin’… just thinking about all the ways you can pay me back for this.”
“Oh-ho really?” she chuckled. “Well if that’s the case, then you’d better earn your pay Mister. And I’m gonna work you hard. Real hard. Whaaa-cheeee!” she made a whip-cracking sound, snapped her wrist and smirked.
I laughed a little nervously, as I felt my penis begin to swell ever so slightly.
The ‘storage room’ was really just a large walk-in closet – approximately 10 feet deep by 6 feet wide. A single 100-watt bulb illuminated everything from the center of the ceiling. The 3 walls were each lined with shelving from top to bottom. These shelves were stacked full with old cardboard boxes of various shapes and sizes. Most of them had been put there when we first moved in, their contents long forgotten. It was between the shelf-lined walls, where the real problem lay. Layer upon layer of boxes, bags, clothing, toys, tools, sporting goods, and bric-a-brac of all kinds. This mass of precious refuse filled the floor from back to front, and rose nearly to the ceiling. Yep, we sure had our work cut out for us.
Surveying the situation, we quickly devised a goal and a plan. The goal was to have the floor cleared out completely – so that we could walk freely and access all the shelving, front to back. Beyond that, our secondary goal was to go through the boxes that occupied the shelves, and determine what could be jettisoned, and what must be kept.
Down the hallway, in the living room, we would establish 3 piles: stuff to trash; stuff to donate; and stuff to keep. The keeper pile would ultimately be returned to the newly organized shelves. As the trash and donation piles grew, we’d bag things up in preparation for their final destination.
We got down to business just about noon. The work went smoothly early on, and I have to say, it wasn’t so bad. It was actually kind of fun. Mom’s bedroom was just a few feet up the hall from the closet, and that served as our base of operations. In her bedroom, we had a couple tall glasses of lemonade. We had Mom’s radio pumping out some classic rock. And most importantly, in her bedroom, we had air conditioning! After all, it was late July in New York – and that means 2 things… heat and humidity.
Of course, we both knew that, and had dressed accordingly. I wore some light-weight grey cotton gym-shorts. No underwear. I knew my balls would be sweaty enough as-is. On top, I wore a simple white tank-top undershirt – a ‘wife beater,’ if you will. Mom too wore a more feminine white tank top – or camisole, with delicate ‘spaghetti’ straps. The cami’s thin fabric did little to mask the pink lace bra she wore underneath – apparently a matching set with her thong. Nor did the sheer lace of her bra, do much to hide the dark, prominent nipples that topped her perky B-cup breasts. Damn, my Mom did look fine!
She kept up a steady stream of chatter as she pulled items out, handing things to me and telling me which pile to place them in. Most of the top layers consisted of her old clothes. And to her credit, Mom was almost ruthlessly determined to make progress. And I was happy to watch her as she’d bend forward presenting her marvelously shaped little ass to my eager vision. I found that as she bent and flexed, the already thin fabric of her yoga pants would stretch and her golden skin would become more visible beneath – revealing the perfect spheres of her butt. I was mesmerized by that pink lace thong. My eyes following the thin strand of fabric as it disappeared into the mysterious paradise between her butt cheeks. And I promised myself that I would find that thong after my Mom changed clothes – and I would inhale her sweet musky scent.
A couple hours passed, and we’d progressed about two-thirds of the way toward the back of the closet. But that New York humidity was causing us to work up quite a sweat. My Mom is of Italian descent. And she has the wonderful olive skin of her ancestors – kissed by the Mediterranean sun. Now, in that midsummer afternoon, her luminous skin was aglow with a fine sheen of perspiration. Her dark brown hair was pulled up high in a pony tail, but a few loose strands of damp hair clung to her shapely neck. And her white camisole had became translucent across her back. All I could think about was how much I wanted to lick the curve of her neck; to taste the sweat from the small of her back; to follow the contours of her body with my tongue.
3.
“Whew!” she exclaimed, “I’m sweating like a pig in here! Why don’t we take a little A/C break?”
“Anything you say, Boss.”
Standing in her blessedly refrigerated bedroom, we drank our lemonades and chit-chatted for awhile about the progress we’d made, and what still needed doing. As we spoke, I couldn’t help but notice the effect that the A/C was having on her nipples. Try as I might to avoid directly staring, my eyes were irresistibly drawn back to those two lovely, prominent protrusions. And, because we were standing more or less face to face, my mother couldn’t help but notice the direction of my involuntary glances. A slight smile played at the corner of her lips.
“Damn, this A/C feels good!” she said, turning and stepping toward the mid-sized unit positioned on her window-sill. With her back toward me she bent at the waist, leaning forward until her face was mere inches from the vents pumping out that icy goodness. She took her time, and I reveled in the wonderful sight of her up-turned ass, and crotch. My cock, which had already been in a state of semi-hardness for the past two hours, now awoke with a renewed vigor. As blood rushed to fill my member, I marveled at the sight of mom’s black tights, clinging damply to the well-defined cleft of her labia.
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