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Well, I missed the Winter Story contest, but that’s okay. Consider this my Christmas present to everyone here at Literotica. This is an expansion and/or rewrite of a story I wrote a long, long time ago for a website far, far away and now sadly defunct. I lost my copies of the story and recently decided that I would create a revised (and hopefully improved), version for you. This is the first installment. I have been asked often if this story is fiction or reality. My response is, “Do any of us truly know where reality ends and our dreams begin?” Enjoy. Please respond and share your opinions. Your feedback, negative or positive is important. Oh, and have a very Merry Christmas, one and all.
“Omigod! Look at it snow, son!” Mom looked over at me with amazement and joy on her face. We had just walked out of the mall, arms laden with last minute Christmas presents after several hours of shopping. The weatherman had mentioned snow might be in the forecast, but there were a few inches of the white stuff on the ground and in the dimming afternoon light, the clouds promised more snow, lots more. As we walked through the falling snow, I couldn’t help but admire how beautiful Mom looked, her long black hair dusted with snowflakes.
We took our presents to Mom’s old station wagon and went in search of a restaurant. At a local steakhouse, we ordered steaks and from our window seat watched as the snow piled up. “I think we might have made a mistake, honey,” Mom said. “Maybe we should have headed for home as soon as I got here.”
I looked at her and nodded, replying, “Maybe so. Even the weather guy didn’t see this coming.” I’d stopped at the bar on our way in and instead of sports, everyone was watching the weather reports on the Six O’clock News. An unexpected collision of polar and humid fronts was giving birth to a major snowstorm. The word blizzard was being tossed around.
Mom had driven down from our hometown in western Illinois to drive me back for Christmas break. I’m a junior at a local university in Chicago. I live off campus and ride the ‘El” to school. No real need for a car, especially at today’s scandalous prices. It was tradition for Mom to drive the four or so hours to pick me up for Christmas break. We’d spend the day catching up, going shopping and having dinner before heading home for the Christmas craziness. It was a chance for Mom and me to have a quiet moment together.
We left the restaurant with a couple of more inches of snow on the ground. Mom’s station wagon plowed stolidly through the snow, but it was getting really messy now. On the radio, the report was to expect somewhere between twelve and fifteen inches of snow by noon tomorrow.
Near my studio apartment, we stopped at a local Korean grocery and used the pay phone there. Mom called home to discover that they were already snowed in. Dad wasn’t happy, fussing that Mom should have known better and the roads there were in even worse shape. He complained until Mom cut him off, saying, “Just get over it, Harold. You and the twins can survive a few days without me. You’ll probably enjoy Christmas even more.” She rolled her eyes at me in disgust. Yeah, my father was a class act, bitching about his own possible discomforts rather than the safety of his wife.
Mom spoke to my younger brothers and reassured them that she’d miss them, but that they and their father would have a fun special Christmas all on their own. I imagine at sixteen, they weren’t too broken up about it. Hanging up the phone, and wiping away a couple of tears, Mom shrugged and said, “Well, sweetie, I guess it’s just you and me this Christmas.”
I hugged my Mom, a shiver going through me. I have to confess, the thought of having my Mom all to myself for several days really appealed to me. I would miss my brothers, heck I might even slightly miss Dad, but I spoke the truth when I replied, “I can’t imagine a more wonderful person to spend Christmas with, Mom.”
Before we left the grocery, Mom insisted we do a little more shopping, fighting the other customers for last minute buys before the storm closed everything down. From there, we managed to get the station wagon back to my old apartment building and into the back alley where the parking slots were located. I usually used my space for storage, but stacking things up, we managed to squeeze Mom’s old boat of a car inside.
We lugged our food and shopping up the five flights of stairs and then collapsed on the couch. On the little black and white television I kept in my studio apartment, the weather man was gleefully assuring everyone that with a projection of now twenty inches of snow, we would be having a very white Christmas. “So, just get comfortable and snuggle up with someone you love and enjoy the snow,” he advised. Mom and I just grinned at each other, Mom’s smile just a little mysterious. I laughed and said, “Let it snow, let snow, let it snow!” It was December 23, 1981 and I was spending Christmas with the woman I loved more than any other bahis firmaları in the world.
Inspired, I went downstairs to the storeroom and brought up our old Christmas tree that Mom had given me when I first went off to college. It was an old artificial tree that I had grown up with. Mom had packed it full of old ornaments and lights. We spent that evening putting it up and thoroughly enjoyed decorating the tree as we recalled special memories evoked by specific ornaments and of hilarious disasters involving the tree and our efforts to decorate it in my youth. Miraculously the lights actually worked the first time we plugged them in. Mom clapped her hands and jumped up and down and I couldn’t help but notice how her breasts bounced enticingly under her cable sweater.
We turned off all the other lights and cuddled up on the couch to watch our tree. I had some Christmas music playing softly on my stereo. Mom, her feet curled up beneath her, leaned into me, my arm around her and her head on my shoulder. “This is perfect,” she said softly. “This is so…”
“Romantic?” I suggested, pulling her against me.
“Yes, romantic,” she replied, looking up into my eyes. “This is how I always wanted Christmas to be like with your father. Cuddled up on the couch with the man I love, but…well, you know how he is.” She left the rest unsaid.
“Yeah, I know. Guess you’ll have to make do with me,” I said it kind of jokingly, but also realizing she might take it as flirting.
“Actually, John, I prefer being with you. You always did know exactly what I like. I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather be with right now. Thank you for this.” Mom rose up and kissed me on the corner of the mouth. “I love you, son.”
I leaned down and replied, “I love you too, Mom,” before I returned her kiss. I missed the corner of her mouth and kissed her smack on the lips. I didn’t rush it and the kiss lasted maybe five seconds.
Mom gasped a little and for a moment as I pulled slightly back, she looked as if she might kiss me back. We just gazed at each other for long time, the air full of tension. Finally, she smiled at me and leaned into me again, putting her head on my chest. “It’s very romantic,” she whispered and then she fell silent and the tension slowly drained away. The moment was wonderful and romantic and we watched our blinking Christmas tree for a long time, content to be in each other’s arms.
As we approached midnight, Mom yawned and said, “I reckon I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long and interesting day.” Then she sat up, laughed and said, “Good Lord, I didn’t pack anything. I expected us to be home by now!” She stood up and stretched and said, “Can I borrow a T-shirt or something for a night gown?”
Inwardly, I groaned with desire. If Mom only knew how guys felt about seeing their woman in one of their shirts. I don’t know why, but I don’t think there’s a guy alive that isn’t turned on by the sight of a good looking woman wearing nothing but one of their shirts. “I’m sure we can find something, Mom. Unless you want to go au’ natural like Aunt Debbie? Mom’s sister is notorious for her nudist habits.
Mom kinda smirked and said, “In your dreams, John. You don’t really want to see an old lady’s sagging body!”
As I rummaged around in a dresser and came up with an old, comfortable sweatshirt, tossing it to Mom, I replied, “You might be surprised.”
Mom blushed and said, “I’m going to go change. Why don’t you fix up the couch for me?” Mom turned and stepped into the bathroom, smiling back at me as she closed the door.
I changed out of my jeans into a T-shirt and some baggy gym shorts. I then changed the sheets on my bed and pulled out fresh sheets and some extra blankets and made a bed for myself on the couch. No way was I gonna make Mom sleep on my couch. Heck, I fall asleep there half the time anyway.
I was sitting there watching the late news shows when Mom came out of the bathroom. Without thinking, I let out an appreciative wolf whistle. Mom looked downright delicious in my sweatshirt. It seemed to mold itself to her chest, drawing attention to her magnificent, meaty breasts and it bottomed out not quite halfway to her knees, looking a lot like a sexy sweater dress. It flattered her sexy legs big time.
“God, shut up, John. You’re such a flirt and I am your mother!” Mom growled, although she looked pleased at my reaction. In any case, she stayed in the bathroom doorway, hands on her hips, posing for me for several seconds. Finally she moved on in the room, self consciously tugging the bottom of the sweatshirt downwards as if she was afraid of it rising up.
So, you’ve got my bed ready?” Mom asked, standing over me.
“Yep, I’ve changed the sheets on the bed. You’re my guest, so you get the bed tonight.” I pointed my thumb over my shoulder at the bed across the room.
Mom said, “I don’t think so, honey. I’ll be fine on the couch.”
We argued back and forth for a couple of minutes, ragging each other good kaçak iddaa naturedly. Hell, I was fine with arguing because it gave me an easy excuse to ogle Mom’s sexy body. Finally though, in an exasperated voice I said, “Mom, just quit arguing and get in my bed!”
Mom gave me the funniest look and as I realized what I’d said, I’m sure I had an odd expression on my face. I know from the heat I felt on my face that I was turning red.
Mom then gave me that funny little smile again and said in a quiet voice, “Well, I guess when a son commands his mother to get into his bed, she better do what she’s told.” She ducked down and kissed me goodnight, this time kissing me on the lips. I sensed her shiver a little and then she said, “Goodnight, son. I love you.”
I watched her walk away and said, “I love you, Mom. Good night.” I turned off the television and then the light next to the couch. Mom turned off the bedside lamp. We were in partial darkness, our only illumination the multicolored lights of our Christmas tree.
We both had trouble getting to sleep. I could hear the noisy springs of my old brass bed creaking as Mom tossed and turned several times along with some heavy sighs. I was restless too, not because of the couch, but because of the funny tension that was building inside my apartment. All my feelings for Mom were coming to the surface and I wondered if I would be able to restrain them while Mom was stranded with me here. As finally, I heard Mom’s breathing settle into a soft, steady rhythm and heard her softly snoring, I began to think about our lives together and how we had came to this moment.
Growing up, I think I always knew I had a special connection with my mother. Perhaps it was that I was the first born child (I have two younger twin brothers). Maybe it was the fact that as an infant, I was gravely ill and might have died if not for Mom’s determination that I pull through. And maybe it is simple fate. I believe that sometimes we’re born with powerful bonds to other people, some that we only meet later in life and some we’ve known literally all our lives.
In any case, all through my childhood and into my early adult years, I knew that our relationship was more than simply mother and son and Mom knew it too. We were friends and soul mates. We could read each other’s moods, sometimes it seemed like we could read each other’s minds. Just being around each other seemed to cheer the other up. We were inseparable. I guess that made me a little weird in the eyes of my siblings and sometimes my friends. When the others were hell bent on playing outside or doing fun “kid” stuff, I would often be hanging out with Mom, helping her in the kitchen or out in the garden or just hanging out.
My father called me a “momma’s boy,” and in general regarded me with disgust. I wasn’t anything like he’d pictured as the model son, I had little interest in football or hunting which were his primary obsessions in life. My younger brothers were much more to his liking and once they began to exhibit interest in his hobbies, he pretty much ignored me which was fine. If he was out doing his “man” stuff with my brothers, I had just that much more time to spend with Mom.
I was well into my teenage years before I realized I was head over heels in love with my mother. Oh, I was attracted to her as soon as puberty hit and Mom was the center attraction of my adolescent fantasies, but it took awhile to understand that what I felt was more than just teenage lust. I simply felt happier when she was around, and who could blame me? Mom was and is the most wonderful person I have ever known. Mom is kind and generous and loving and in my eyes, the most beautiful woman in the world.
The year of the Great Blizzard, Mom was forty-two years old, and stood five foot, five inches in her stocking feet. She had and still has a gorgeous, zaftig figure. Mom has large, heavy and yes, sagging tits, like great gourds resting on her chest, that are capped with thick and long nipples, as round as quarter. Mom has a slight stomach pooch and wide hips from giving birth twice, but still has a voluptuous figure. She’s a little proud of her legs which are still very shapely and sexy. Red letter days are those in which Mom chooses to wear a dress that shows off her lovely legs.
Mom has lovely, pale skin and the most beautiful brown-green eyes. Her thick, black hair she wears long, hanging down below her shoulders and for years whenever possible, I would try and find reasons to press my face into her dark mane, relishing the scent of her hair. Mom always seems to have a fragrance of jasmine around her, mixed with her own natural scent which always provokes a reaction in me.
For her part, I think Mom slowly came to realize how I felt about her and also recognized that she had more than just chaste, motherly feelings about me. She told me often that I resembled her father who had died before she met my father and that I was the handsomest man she knew. I don’t know about kaçak bahis that. I grew up to be a stocky fellow, muscled, not fat. In high school and in college, I’ve worked for a soda drink distributor, loading up the delivery trucks. It pays well and keeps me in tip-top shape.
In any case, I knew that Mom and I often acted more intimately than the standard for mother and son. By the time I turned eighteen, we were often mildly flirting with each other, Mom treating me more like a spouse than a son. Certainly we acted more like a couple than did Mom and Dad. Sometimes, this seem to trouble Mom and she’d withdraw from me for a day or two, but like a moth drawn to a candle, our old familiar ways would always resume. But, until the Great Blizzard, we never really found ourselves in a situation that might induce our mutual attraction to lead to something else.
I woke up feeling somewhat out of sorts. I recalled a jumble of erotic dreams involving Mom and me, much of the kind that I’d had since I was a teenager. I was also feeling horny and I needed to piss really bad. My gym shorts were tented with a massive piss hard-on. I struggled out of my blankets only to hear Mom say cheerily, “Good morning, son!”
I looked up and my aching erection throbbed. Mom was in the kitchen area of my studio apartment, still wearing my sweatshirt and showing off those damn fine legs. Her long black hair was sexily unkempt from sleeping, making her look like some bedroom goddess in my eyes. She was cracking open eggs and dropping them into a frying pan. I suddenly realized that I could smell bacon. “Morning, Mom!” I said slowly, enjoying the sensations of waking up to find a sexy woman making me breakfast.
I stood up and stretched, realizing too late how my hard-on stood out against my shorts. Mom was looking over her shoulder at me. Breakfast in five minutes, John. You better go take care of things before you explode.”
I again felt myself blushing and I hurried towards the bathroom while Mom giggled. I did my business and washed up. As I was reaching for a towel, I saw that hanging on the towel rod were Mom’s panties. They were your standard white cotton panties, but just seeing them there made my cock began to swell again. I reached out and touched them. They were slightly damp and I realized Mom must have washed them out the night before, although they still carried her distinctive scent (and yes, I was known to occasionally sniff Mom’s soiled panties). My cock jerked as I suddenly wondered what Mom was or not wearing under my sweatshirt.
I tried to adjust my shorts to conceal my rather large bulge and carefully walked back into the main room. Mom could hear the floor creaking and called out, “Breakfast is almost ready, honey. Where do you keep your toaster?”
I turned towards the kitchen area and stopped dead in my tracks. Mom was bent over peering into one of my bottom cupboards, sorting through my kitchen utensils. Mom’s sweatshirt had ridden upwards, exposing her full, round butt cheeks and her pussy! Now I had caught glimpses of Mom’s hairy bush over the years, walking into the bathroom and catching her by accident, but in this position, her cunt lips were very much exposed, blooming out of her thick pubic hair and exposing a thin, glistening pink line of pussy flesh. This was the holiest of grails for me. I’d dreamed of seeing Mom’s pussy so many times and now it was exposed scant feet away from me!
I tried to reply, but only managed a garbled mumble. Mom turned her head to look at me with my pole-axed expression and realized what she was showing off. “OH!” Mom gasped standing up and tugging her sweatshirt down. “I’m so sorry, John!” We both stood there shocked and embarrassed. Finally, Mom laughed and said, “Where’s the damn toaster?”
“Um. It’s uh, in there.” I pointed in the general direction of the cupboard doors over the stove or at least I think I did. My eyes kept moving back towards the hem of the sweatshirt, hoping against hope I’d get another chance to see my mother’s pussy.
Mom turned away, trying to get things back to normal. She raised her arm and opened the cupboard door and then went to tiptoe to reach for the toaster, saying “How do you want your toast, buttered or – DAMMIT!” Mom realized too late that reaching for the toaster, she again exposed her bottom to me. I didn’t get the crystal clear view of her pussy this time, but enjoyed the view of her dark hair covered mound and her luscious ass.
She spun around, trying to pull the shirt back down, but not before I saw her bush from the front. Mom’s bush was a beautiful, wild mat of black pubic hair that grew in an unruly ‘V” well above her pussy, gradually thinning out on her lower abdomen.
Mom’s face was beet red as was mine and we stared at each other for a few seconds, the tension building until we both burst out laughing. “Get the damn toaster down, John.” She moved out of my way, her laughter suddenly cutting off short as I reached up and got the toaster. I glanced over at her and saw that she was looking downward at my crotch. I glanced downward and saw the tent in my shorts. If I could get any harder, I’m sure my cock would have torn right through that cotton fabric.
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