Chapter 1

“Cliff, you said you would,” Mom complained. “It has to be brushed out tonight or it won’t be right for tomorrow.” Mom shook her heavy mane of hair, the red highlights glinting against the background of her rich brown locks.

“I know, Emily,” Dad acknowledged, “but I have to get this done for tomorrow morning.” Dad waved the papers in his hand at Mom, finishing with a sweeping gesture toward the stack occupying the coffee table in front of him. “Bill had to go to LA and this got dumped on me. I can’t help it.”

“That’s just great. You know what my hair is like. I’ll look like a flathead, and it’s the biggest fundraiser of the year. Not that you care.”

Mom turned on her heel and walked quickly away. Though she didn’t stomp, it was clear from her deliberate tread that she wasn’t happy. Exasperated and already stressed, Dad muttered something under his breath and settled back into his papers. I left for the kitchen, ostensibly to make myself some hot chocolate but just as much to escape. I made a couple of extra mugs, one for each of my parents and carried a tray into the living room, offering one to my Dad.

“Oh, thanks Mike. Did you make one for your Mom?”

I nodded at the two mugs left on the tray.

“Good boy. Look, can you do me a favor and brush her hair for her. You know how she is about her hair.”

“Sure Dad.”

“Great. Thanks son.”

I walked carefully across the room and up the stairs, trying not to spill the hot chocolate. I knew about Mom and her hair, that’s for sure. Because of the red highlights, Mom’s long, thick and full-bodied head of hair was especially beautiful in the sunlight but if it wasn’t brushed it lost its shine and hung flat. This had a dramatic effect on the way Mom felt about herself, especially because her hair compensated for a lack of prominent assets in the chest area. She did have very nice legs, at least my dad was always saying so, but she thought they were too thin and was convinced his compliments simply confirmed that he thought her breasts were too small. So Dad had learned not to say anything. Thankfully, I wasn’t expected to say.

Mom’s door was open and she was sitting in front of the mirrored dresser brushing her hair. As I approached, I stepped around her discarded robe which looked like it had been tossed toward the bed but fell short and sprawled on the floor. Mom was dressed in a pale blue nightdress I had seen before, though I could only see the bit covering her hips and the lower six inches of her back; the rest was covered by her hair.

Mom’s eyes looked up when I entered and her expression softened.

“Oh Michael, you didn’t need to do that.” Mom always called me Michael and Dad always called me Mike.

“No problem, not for my favorite lady,” I sucked up, hoping to drain Mom’s anger though I knew she would already be feeling sorry about getting mad at Dad.

“That’s so sweet,” Mom said as I put her mug down on the dresser in front of her. “Will you stay for a few minutes with me?”

“Sure.” I took my mug over to the bed and sat down, tossing the tray behind me. I sipped hot chocolate and watched Mom brush her hair after taking a small drink from her mug.

“Is Dad mad at me?” she asked, pulling the brush slowly through her hair.

“You know he’s not,” I answered, causing a slight smile that conveyed both relief and acknowledgement that she knew this to be true.

With each stroke of the brush, her breasts stretched up to strain against the front of her nightdress, starkly outlining their form for a brief moment before her descending arm relaxed the material sufficiently to camouflage her feminine physique. As I drank my hot chocolate, my eyes were drawn again and again to this exposition but I thought nothing more of it than to note that there was more there to meet the eye than Mom thought. It was strange to notice this feature of my mother with such platonic regard, for I wasn’t feeling anything sexual about it. I just noted, with some surprise, that from this vantage point, Mom’s breasts were more substantial than I had thought.

Mom took her second drink and looked over to smile at me but she didn’t say anything. Feeling suddenly self conscious, I drained my mug in one gulp and stood to leave. As I walked behind Mom, she thanked me again for being so thoughtful. Something made me stop. I leaned past Mom, set my empty mug beside hers, and stopped her hand in mid-stroke, relieving her of the brush.

“I’ll do it for you Mom,” I quietly offered my services.

“You don’t have to do that, Michael.”

“I want to. Let me do it for you Mom.”

I was rewarded with a big smile. “Ok. That’s so sweet of you.” Mom adjusted her position on the seat, with a pleased wiggle as I began pulling the brush slowly and gently through her reddy brown hair.

I brushed Mom’s hair for quite a while and after she took the last drink from her mug, she leaned her head back, looked up at my face, and asked me to do the front, meaning the part that draped down over her ears. She closed her eyes, leaving her face turned up toward me, and leaned back against me. That was my undoing.

As I looked down, carefully brushing the hair beside Mom’s face, I realized that I had an unobstructed view of Mom’s chest, barely covered by the thin nightgown. It was readily apparent that Mom was not wearing a bra and this time, I definitely noticed that her small but pert breasts were very sexy. I quickly jerked my eyes away but they returned when I realized that with Mom’s eyes closed, I was free to look. I could see the dark red spots encasing her nipples and a thrill rippled through me when I noticed her nipples poking into the silky material of her nightgown. I focused first on one nipple and then the other. As my gaze traveled between them, I realized the sides of her breasts were bare because the nightgown delved down in a big ‘V’ to the top of her tummy.

This wonderful vista generated a twinge in my groin and I became suddenly cognizant of a boner growing in my jeans which were pressed against the spongy flesh of my mother’s back. I couldn’t pull away because Mom was leaning too far back and she would have lost her balance. I had to act like nothing was happening. I willed my cock to behave itself, admonishing myself for getting hard while looking at my own mother. When that didn’t work, I started thinking of horrible things, like a hammer smashing my balls on an anvil but even that didn’t work.

Mom sighed and purred, “That feels wonderful.”

She moved her head slightly from side to side, just enough to press her back harder against my scrotum, my softness slowly stiffening away.

“Put the brush down and massage my head like your father does.”

I leaned forward to set the brush down on the dresser, my errant appendage pressing even harder into Mom’s back. I worked my fingers over Mom’s head, gently massaging her scalp and then down to erase the stress lines from on her forehead, letting my fingers stretch down her cheeks and along her jaw line before returning to her head, the way I’d seen my father do it many times before.

“Mmmmmmmmm,” Mom sighed, slowly twisting her head and neck, making the constrained ball within my jeans grow another inch.

Maybe she didn’t realize what was happening to me. Maybe she couldn’t feel it through thick material of my jeans. Of course she can’t, I reasoned, I was no porn star. I relaxed and my eyes strayed back to Mom’s tits, now stretching the nightgown tightly across her upthrust nipples which seemed longer than they were moments before. They may be small, but they were fucking nice!

Perhaps because of their subconscious desire to touch Mom’s breasts, my hands dipped lower on their next pass down Mom’s cheeks, below her jaw line, to stroke and massage her neck and throat, an action that pulled her tighter against my bulging jeans. I didn’t realize I was doing it until Mom spoke.

“Oh, that feels really nice,” she purred. “I like that.” Mom arched her neck, pushing her head back and stretching her nightgown until her tits looked like they were going to burst through.

When I returned to massage her forehead and scalp, I left one hand on Mom’s throat, gently massaging her windpipe and the underside of her chin. Mom purred a constant, throaty appreciation. I was sure that her nipples were definitely longer and her breasts seemed firmer all around, rising more abruptly from her chest. I don’t know how long I massaged her like that but it dawned on me that I wasn’t massaging her scalp so much as stroking her throat and face, and just after that realization I was startled by the sound of my father’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Your father’s coming,” Mom whispered.

I pulled my hands away from her neck and face, her whispered warning suddenly making me see my touch as a caress. My hands returned to Mom’s scalp and her eyes opened just as Dad entered the bedroom. Why had she whispered?

“Cliff, you can’t believe the wonderful scalp massage your son just gave me.”

“Oh?” my father asked, shuffling toward the bathroom, clearly not interested.

“Yes. You could be replaced, not that you’d care,” Mom jibed.

“Done,” Dad shot back. “You’ve got a job, Mike. It’s full time if you didn’t already know.”

The door closed and a few seconds later the tinkle of Dad’s pee could be heard even through the closed bathroom door. I gently prodded Mom to an upright position and pulled away.

“No, don’t go,” Mom protested.

“Dad’s going to bed. I should too.”

“No. Just a little longer,” Mom begged.

“Mom,” I complained, tugging the hand she had captured in her own.

“Go get in your pajamas while Dad gets changed and then come back for a while longer.”

“Mom.”

“Please. That felt so nice. Just a bit more,” Mom whined.

“Alright,” I conceded, wanting to escape with my still bulging jeans before Dad came back into the room.

Mom let go and I was gone, struggling with my thoughts. She couldn’t have known what was happening or she would have been mad. She certainly wouldn’t have asked me to come back for more. But how could I do it in my pajamas? No, I’d have to keep my jeans on. But she told me to get changed. That’s ok. I’d just stand back so she couldn’t lean back against me, rub her scalp for awhile, and get out.

Normally, I slept nude in the summer or with a pair of pajama bottoms from late fall through early spring. Following my habit, I put on a pair of PJ’s and was out the door before it dawned on me that I couldn’t wear just pajamas. What if I got a hardon again? How could I hide it? I returned and put on a pair of jockey shorts, rummaging around for a tight pair that would keep me close. Suitably armored, I put my PJ’s back on and headed for my parents room, resolved to make this a brief as possible to minimize the possibility of facing an awkward, embarrassing situation.

Dad was in bed when I entered and the lights had been turned off except for Mom’s lamp on Mom’s dresser which had been dimmed. I approached Mom, leaving almost a foot between myself and her back, and awkwardly stretched forward to get the hairbrush from the dresser. Mom pushed my hand away.

“Just do my scalp like before,” she spoke quietly, glancing at Dad.

I looked over at Dad too before I put my hands on Mom’s hair. He was lying on his back with his eyes closed breathing quite deeply if not actually snoring yet. Turning back to Mom, I saw in the mirror that she had noticed where I was looking.

“He’s been doing that for about a year now. He goes to sleep as soon as he’s in bed. He’ll start snoring in a couple of minutes.”

My fingers were threading through Mom’s hair, pulling it back and away from her face, revealing her relaxed smile. My fingers traced around the edges of her forehead, then down one cheek, under her chin and up the other side of her face, circling her ear to drag her hair out, letting it fall and returning my hand to her forehead to repeat the cycle. Mom closed her eyes.

“That’s feels so good, Michael.” Mom turned her face up toward me, I suppose to make it easier for me to reach.

I didn’t answer. There was no need, and anyway, I was captivated to the length of her exposed throat. Why should the vulnerability of a woman’s neck be so exciting? Porn sites certainly weren’t populated with pictures of women’s necks. As I caressed Mom’s face, my free hand slipped down to stroke her neck as I had been doing before Dad came upstairs. As that thought filtered through my mind, I glanced his way but he was still lying on his back. The only change I noticed was that he was breathing more deeply and before I looked away, he started to quietly snore. Surprisingly, I was more excited than scared to be touching Mom the way I was with my father lying not ten feet away.

For some reason, that brought a smile to my face and it made Mom relax. I could feel the tension flow from her neck on Dad’s first snore and by the third, despite the gap between us, Mom leaned back until her head collided with my groin. I panicked then, sure she would open her eyes and suddenly leap forward, swing around and ask me what the hell was going on. She did no such thing. She just relaxed and let out a contented sigh. There was no adverse reaction about the back of her head resting on a lump that shouldn’t be there.