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Mom's Pathfinder

I arrived home from my first year of college to find a different mother than the one I had left the previous fall. I didn't go home for Christmas, partly to spare the cost of flying across the country, and partly because I needed to study to help my faltering GPA. Dad's business had become quite competitive, so convincing Dad that it would save time and therefore money if I took some courses at the local college instead of working a summer job was quite an accomplishment for my mother. Dad actually seemed pleased that I wouldn't be helping out at the company, if not getting a summer job somewhere else. I was looking forward to a summer without work, and to thanking Mom by being helpful any way I could.

I was surprised when Mom picked me up at the airport. She looked at least five years younger with a sleeker, tanned look capped by a new hair style with more body and longer, falling to her shoulders in the 'wet' look that was so much in fashion. Her clothes were more fashionable too. I suspected that this, in addition to the economic arguments, was part of the package Mom used to persuade Dad to let me go to summer school.

The first two days I was back, I noticed that Mom worked hard to hone the non-economic aspects of her persuasive techniques. By the time I got up she had already completed a workout in the basement. She quickly made a protein drink in the blender while I gulped my eggs and toast down with a mug of coffee. Though sweating and flushed from her workout, she wasn't breathing hard. She looked good but I felt a twinge of guilt taking in her trimmer physique as I chewed my food. Jeez bud, I thought. You're looking at your Mom's body? How creepy can you get?

But hey. With her hand on her hip as she waited impatiently for the blender to finish its work, it was hard not to admire Mom's legs, the jut her butt, the deep dip from her hip into her waist, and the swell of her swollen breast under the damp t-shirt. When she shook her head, her hair seemed to swish back and forth in slow motion, like a sexy woman in a deodorant commercial; except it was my mom.

Mom stared at the blender as it worked, allowing me plenty of time to soak in her new, exciting self. As she passed by me, drink in hand, she spoke a few cheery before disappearing upstairs. A few minutes later, she sauntered back through the kitchen as I rinsed my dishes in the sink. As I put the dishes in the dishwasher, I creepily looked out the open kitchen door to watch my mother walk slowly toward the pool in a very brief bikini I had never seen before. Wow!

That day, I sat in the backyard and looked at Mom a lot. Though discreet, I got the feeling she was aware of my appreciating gaze. Sure enough, I became tongue-tied when she said, "I haven't changed that much Jason. Just a little sun and exercise."

After several long seconds during struggling to formulate a defense, Mom bailed me out, "Come put some sunscreen on for me. I won't bite, I'm the same old Mom."

She held out a squeeze bottle of suntan lotion which I took, advisedly squelching my lame response. I knelt down on the grass beside the mat Mom was lying on. As soon as I grabbed the lotion, she folded her arms and laid her head on them, closing her eyes. I applied the lotion to her shoulders and then worked my way out her upper arms, pushing her hair out of the way, before skipping to her lower back below the tie for her bikini top. I can't say I didn't enjoy it but I was a little uncomfortable with my feelings as I rubbed my mother's warm skin and I was about to get up when I finished her back but Mom stopped me.

"Hey," she said without opening her eyes. "Do under the strap."

I put a little lotion on my fingers and gingerly spread it under the bikini strap crossing Mom's back. I felt very uncomfortable when my fingers approached the side and quit before going over the edge where I could see Mom's breast squishing out around the edge of the tiny top. I jumped up, ready to go back to my seat.

"Whoa," Mom said, lifting her head. "Legs," she jerked her head back, then lowered it back onto her arms.

"Oh. Ok," I said, sheepishly.

I knelt down beside Mom's legs, squirted some lotion in my palm, and started applying it to the back of Mom's calves. I must have daydreamed for awhile because Mom had to tell me to stop putting it on there and to do above her knees. Her voice startled me because when I came to my senses I realized that I had been staring at Mom's behind. As I rubbed the lotion into the back of Mom's thighs, I consciously noted how skimpy her bikini was. It barely covered her buttocks. I could see the start of the crevice above her bikini and the material below did little to disguise its presence. An anxious sensation spread through my abdomen and my chest felt restricted. Try as I might, I couldn't look away from Mom's bottom.

I didn't quit rubbing until Mom said, "Thanks, Jason. That should be enough for the afternoon."

I was dismissed. I struggled to my feet and walked awkwardly away, with a lump in my shorts.

* * * * *

I was bothered by my thoughts for the rest of the afternoon. The next day and the one after that, Mom suntanned again for a couple of hours but she didn't ask me to do her back and legs for her. I was convinced I had given myself away and was embarrassed about it but Mom didn't act differently toward other than not asking me to rub suntan lotion on her. I guess if she had noticed, she wasn't too bothered by it. I started to feel glad she hadn't asked me to put lotion on her; happy to avoid another uncomfortable situation. Sort of, anyway.

Then we had the dinner. The dinner table was graced with casual and light-hearted conversation. Everything was fine until Dad remarked, "Oh, I have to go back in tonight. Sorry, sweetheart."

I didn't think anything of it. Mom didn't reply, but after she scooped as second helping of mashed potatoes, unusual for her, onto her plate. She set the bowl down sharply on the table.

"I'm sorry, honey. It can't be helped."

"Mmhhmm," was Mom's only response.

Dad started to say something more but Mom cut him off.

"I don't want to talk about it."

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence until Dad responded to my efforts to renew our conversation. Mom didn't join in.

After dinner, Mom left the kitchen and went to her room. Dad didn't follow, but he called up to say goodbye before leaving. Mom didn't come downstairs that night and I cleaned up the kitchen by myself.

The next day followed the same routine as before. I was watching Mom lying in the sun, wishing she would ask me to do her back for her, thinking it would make her feel better and, yes, I wanted to touch her again - to hell with uncomfortable feelings. The phone rang and I ran to get it. I was nervous relaying Dad's message to Mom: He wouldn't be home for dinner; he had to work late.

Mom didn't raise her head or open her eyes to look at me. She just nodded, picked up the lotion and twisted her arm back toward me, holding it out in her hand. I took the bottle and dropped to my knees beside her, squirting a generous portion of lotion into my palm; it was warm in my hand. I hesitated briefly before turning my hand over and pressing my palm to Mom's upper back. Softly, I moved my hand in a widening circle, slowly, afraid to disturb Mom's thoughts. I felt she wanted me present for comfort but she also wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

I worked Mom's shoulders, massaging more than rubbing the lotion in. I was consciously trying to soothe her pain, aiming for relaxation. When I moved to Mom's lower back, I spread the lotion out from the shallow groove of her spine, down to the two large dimples on either side just above the rising swell of her buttocks. Mom's skin rippled before the edge of my hands as I pushed outward, over the dimples and onto the fleshiness of her hips before twisting up to curl around her waist.

Finally, I finished and lifted my hands from Mom's back but she reached behind herself with both hands and tugged on the tied bow of her bikini, pulling the straps away and laying them on the mat beside her. I stared at Mom's bare back with the faint mark where the strap had been. The strap removed, her back seemed so much longer, and elegant. I squirted a few drops of lotion across the mark and rubbed it in.

I should have been done then but instead I placed my hands flat on Mom's back and spread them out to the sides, just as I'd done with her lower back. I pushed until my hands fell over the edge, but this time they didn't scrape over Mom's waist, they pushed onto the fatty swells squishing out from her sides. Quickly, I pulled my hands away to avoid a rebuke, as if it was an accident, and returned to Mom's back. A moment later, I started on her legs.

As I rubbed the lotion into Mom's legs in long, loving strokes, I noticed that she was crying. It was so soft, I wouldn't have known if I couldn't feel the tremors in her legs. I hated my father at that moment, but not as much as I did on Saturday when he was called into work again.

Some time after Dad left, I went to the store to pick some things up for Mom. I drove past Dad's work. Strangely, his car wasn't there. Great, I thought. He's gone home already. But his car wasn't there when I got home. What is going on?

Mom was lying on the mat in the sun when I got home. Her bikini top was already undone. I put the groceries away and walked out to join her. She didn't need to ask. I picked up the lotion and started rubbing it into her back right away. I took a long time but there was no sobbing this time. I let my hands stray over the fleshy part of her squished out boobs several times. Twice, I stroked over them from below as my fingers rubbed up Mom's sides.

When I finished, I stayed by Mom's side. I didn't talk but she knew I was still there. After a while, I put the tip of my index finger between her shoulder blades and slowly dragged it down, following the course of her spine to the base of her back. Then, I traced a random, wandering path back up Mom's back.

"Let's go on a little trip," I said. "We'll explore the world, looking here and there, searching every nook and corner, until we find our own special way. Let your mind go and follow the Pathfinder."

Mom chuckled. It was a wonderful sound. I couldn't count the hours, when I was little, that Mom tickled my back until I fell asleep, delicately tracing the tip of her finger around and around, over my back, down my arms and legs, until I drifted into sleep. Follow the Pathfinder, she would whisper softly in my ear, and pocket all the treasures you find until you find a safe place to sleep.

A huge surge of goodness welled up inside me when Mom sighed out loud and wiggled her shoulders to get into a more comfortable position as my finger trailed over her back and across her shoulders. She was settling in for a long session, knowing how much payback she was owed. I ...
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