I’ll Be a Mommy’s Uncle! (1-3) [Fm, inc, regression, x-dress, reluct, slow]

I'll Be a Mommy's Uncle! by DiscipleN

It's was dull around the house after my father died. You never know what you're going to miss about a person until he's gone. I'll never miss his cocaine frenzies or the occasional flings he flaunted before mom, but my father was a pretty fun guy otherwise. I was pretty young to be certain of my memories of the time he spent with me, but I know I was never bored. When I turned eleven, it seemed like the three previous years without Pop were one eternal drag after another.

You see my mother was very strict and proper, and she decided, soon after my birth, to ensure I never followed the outlandish path of my father. Curfew was instilled in me the day I left the crib. Sundown meant straight to bed, lights out, and no noise. I could play with friends, but only from after school 'til dinner time, five o-clock. She dressed me conservatively, short haircut, comfortable brown shoes probably designed by the Amish, and she only bought starched white shirts and permanent press gray or tan trousers. I was drilled in every pleasantry and courtesy, and learned manners fit for a duke. In religion she was a tad more flexible, Methodist or Southern Baptist. She took me to both every Sunday.

You begin to see my father was my only example of rebellion. After his death, mother threw out the TV and radios. She edited the newspaper with scissors. If I dared to cross my mom, she'd cross two lines on my butt! Father knew what he was doing when he stole me from my room late at night and sneaked me into an R rated movie. He wanted me to experience the things that normal kids find when they're not looking, weird corners of the universe. He took me to bars, (but he didn't let me drink). He showed me risqué, old french postcards, (but nothing showing pussy). He dragged me to his friends house where rather wild parties would erupt, (but he made sure I was off limits.) I learned a lot about the life mother would never let me lead, with a respectable amount of restraint.

Unfortunately, neither Mom nor Dad realized what their yin and yang influence would create. I can sum it up in two words. Frustrated adventurer.

Why they didn't divorce or separate continues to puzzle me. I can only guess mom really believed in her marriage vows, death until they parted. I know now she was furious at him for exposing me to excessive behaviors, but she never contradicted him or argued with him. She was the perfect, obedient wife. As for father, I have to guess a little harder, but maybe mom was the best piece of ass he had ever encountered. If he had a fetish for women with girdles and wire bras, mom would be his goddess. I mean, look at her, my mom could have been a champion breeding mare for kings. She was elegant, stylish, and trim but full bodied. Her long hair signaled dark sensuality in a breeze, and passionate brown spice in a wind. Her face could bring back a thousand ships.

Pop died in mom's arms from a brain aneurism, dick in her pussy, snowy power dotted around his nostrils. I still imagine him cumming in her in a last effort to impregnate her chemically repressed womb. Mother naturally freaked out. Years after her husband's death, she still wore black and never dated. She hadn't loved her husband for most of my childhood, but the widow's godhead was a powerful station in life. She could live independently, act unquestioned in society, and be my mother warden full time.

In my eleventh year, my adolescent adoration of parental figures was down to the fumes. Normally, you need to be a teenager to experience angst's full power of domestic revolt, but I had two things to assist my transformation from child into underaged demon. First my growing deification of my memory of my father, and second, my growing hard-on.

I noticed the connection one day, when mother was in the backyard, hanging the wash. We had a washing machine but not a dryer in those days. I had turned eleven about four months prior, and I was handing her clothespins and helping raise the larger linens. A wind suddenly kicked up and knocked a quilt into my mother. She fell upon the grass and twisted her wrist. She yelped in pain, but stoic she was, she turned her pain into anger against herself.

"Foolish woman, can't keep to your feet!" And she abruptly punished herself by lifting herself to her feet using only her injured arm.

Standing next to her, I tried to assist her by grabbing her shoulder and lifting. All I managed to do was tug her black blouse and beige bra strap over her shoulder and down upon her arm, just as she was using it, most painfully, to regain her feet.

"Ow!", she yelled and fell back once more upon the grass.

I knelt to assist her.

"Calvin, don't touch me!" She muttered and held her re-injured wrist in her good hand. The pain diverted so much of her attention, she failed to notice the one thing that would have caused far greater distress.

Her left tit had fallen out of her blouse. Apparently when I helped raise her, I pulled her dress enough to snap two top buttons, and when she flounced back on the ground, the bra was pulled just far enough to jettison it's heavy but flexible cargo. My mother's tit spilled out of her dress like a sack of wine off a donkey cart.

I suppose most children, upon accidentally glimpsing a naked breast, would be more than a little curious about the sight. Even little girls might stare or even point, as children are always extraordinarily aware of everything different about adults. It's our most valuable tool for preparing ourselves to become them.

As for myself, I was flabbergasted! I had seen naked tits in the era of my father when I was seven years old, either in a film or casually at one of the wild parties he took me too. I originally reacted with the innocent curiosity I mention above. By my second year of exposure, curiosity had faded out of sufficient familiarity. However when I was eleven, the idea of a naked breast meant something all together new. It triggered a dozen, half memories of wanton women from dad's favorite R rated films. I had yet to see pussy, but tits were my ignorant idea of what sex was all about, hidden but plain to see. Just like the hard prick that was suddenly stuffed in my summer shorts. The concept matched my emotions of the time, powerful urges desperately kept in check out of fear.

I think my mother became aware of her bare breast and my jutting cock at the same time. She broke every expectation I'd learned about her when she shouted, "Go to your room and masturbate, why don't you!" She covered her exposed nipple with her elbow, but didn't otherwise try to replace the tit into her blouse. Her injured wrist must have been throbbing.

Naturally, I was incredibly timid about my mother's controlling power, and I hopped to, running straight into the house and down the hall to my room. I did not jack off. I knew mother hated the act, not that it normally stopped me, but on that day my guilt about it was too strong to overcome.

At dinner, that night, mother had fully regained her composure and acted as if nothing extraordinary had happened, other than the cream colored brace that contrasted with her pale wrist. That she didn't assign scads of extra chores to punish me was a particular relief for my guilty conscience.

Now I honestly believe my mother loved me as good mother's do, but her love was expressed in classic puritanical values and action. Hard work, proper discipline, and attention to cleanliness filled my days outside of school. Mother was otherwise unable to express her devotion to my upbringing. When she touched me it was to correct me. Consequently, I touched her only when formality required it.

My early fantasy life had all but excluded her during, what I thought were, my private jack off sessions in my bedroom. Father once told me about boys who pumped their erect penises with their hand, but he didn't ever demonstrate it. In my late ninth year, I was first reminded about his casual and guilt free mention of male masturbation when I woke up with hard-on that spoke to me. I'll remember those first feelings of sexual desire for the rest of my life. They were strong and new and unnamed. I wanted something but didn't know what. My hard dick felt oddly alive in a curious way. If my father hadn't described how some boys would take their penis in their hands and massage it, I would never have figured it out by myself. I took to it like a tot to candy. Because the act was associated with my father, wild horses couldn't have dragged out a confession of it to my mother. It was she who had dragged it before me.

In one day, I had witnessed something I could never have imagined. My greatest, guilty secret had been exposed by my tyrant goddess. Mother knew I was wanking my prick! On that day, my brain must have wired it's last circuit in it's sexuality lobe. Soon after 'the incident' I did try jerking off to the memory of my mother's naked tit. I immediately discovered that I could orgasm at a new level, remembering mother lying in the grass, her long black skirt splayed out like a blanket, her upper blouse in disarray, and her full breast pressed out into the clear sun. I came with spurts of proto-cum for the first time in my life. Quickly thereafter, I became intent upon seeing her tits again.

Just how does a young boy go about exposing his mother's body? There are more than enough fantasies about mind control and drugs and blackmail and psychological weaknesses that allow precocious boys to get into their mother's skirts and brasiers and girdles, but in reality there is no chance in hell a male child is going to get his mother to strip let alone put out, unless that boy hadn't yet heard any of them.

Think about it. My joys in life were limited. I couldn't even piss standing up. From an early age, mother had commanded that the only way to avoid dirtying the rim of the toilet bowl or the bathroom floor mat was to sit and stick it in the bowl. It being my young little cock. One day, after a lifetime of fear that mother would kill me for knowing how and loving to jack off, she yells at me to do just that. Multiply that with discovering my best wanking fantasy of all, and you've invented monomania.

I promised myself, admittedly foolishly, that I would figure out how to see my mother naked whenever I desired. If only desires were fulfilled by simply desiring them, there would be peace everlasting in this world, hah! I came up with a plan. It was a stupid plan, as you'll learn. But stupidest thing about it was, it worked.

Mother never mentioned masturbation or her naked breast after the event. I thought of them continuously. On a sunny day, during a particularly silent lunch, I asked her, "Mom, can I wear your clothes?"

Mother stopped chewing and swallowed. "No. Finish your cream of spinach."

"Why Mommy? I hate wearing the same old white shirt and these stupid pants. All the other kids get to wear whatever they want."

"All the other kids are going to grow up to be drug addicts." She took a modest bite from her sandwich.

"Humph!" I snorted. It's was the same thing she said whenever I mentioned how different we were from the rest of our neighborhood. According to her, everyone else either lived in, or were headed towards living in, despair and ruin.

That was round one. Score one for mother.

A week later, I asked her. "Mom can I wear your shirt?"

"It's a blouse. No."

"I hate this shirt." I told her again.

"We don't hate anything in this household, Calvin. Hate is evil. Got that? Besides, you don't hate that shirt, you're simply tired of it."

Round two: 2 points for mother.

Another week passes.

"Mom, can I wear your dress?"

"No. Dresses are not for boys."

"If you can hide that weird top thing under your dress mommy, why can't I hide this awful shirt under it?"

Mother didn't say anything for a second. She'd never heard anything so outlandish and crazy.

"Calvin, I want you to stop complaining about your shirt. We don't have enough money to buy you new clothes." My mother was a clever soul. She easily figured out I had an ulterior motive for my stupid requests.

"I know, that's why I want to wear your clothes!" I shouted. Mother was less able to fathom logic out of nonsense.

"Shout one more time, and I'll paddle you." She defaulted.

Round three: 3 points for mother.

A week later I came into to dinner wearing one of her gray sweaters.

"Calvin, take that off at once." Mother barely raised her voice.

I resisted. She repeated her order, her un-amused expression didn't flinch.

I unbuttoned the soft wool garment and pulled it off my arms. My thin, hairless chest was naked beneath it.

Mother's eyes remained emotionless. She got up from the table, grabbed me by the ear, and hauled me into the living room. She paddled my ass long and hard.

Round four: 4 points for mother.

On the fifth week, mother opened my bedroom door and confronted me. "Calvin, what have you done with my blouses?"

The answer was simple. I had taken them all out of her dresser and closet and piled them at the foot of my bed. The result was much more interesting than the act. Mother stood in my doorway, light streaming from the bathroom behind her, wearing only her skirt and a bra. She walked across the room as if they were her normal garb and plucked up the pile of blouses. My eyes grew wide as soup spoons staring at the cream colored nylon supporting and concealing her bountiful tits. If only I could have pulled my cock out right then I would have spurted out my increasingly milky cum far enough to soak her thick, conservative undergarment.

"I'll see you in the living room in two minutes."

Round five should have gone to me, but my resulting backside was so red and sore, I'm not sure it was even a tie. 4 and 1/2 points for mom. Half a point for me.

— 2 —

My littlest victory was so sweet, stripping mother down to her bra, I didn't wait another week. Three days later, just about the time my bum was able to sit down in a hard chair again, I stole her skirts.

Mother retrieved her clothes straight away, this time wearing only her blouse and a heavy cotton girdle. I wasn't nearly as excited by this state of undress as a more experienced boy or man might have been. Yet I didn't miss the shape her full-length, black stockings assumed. If Pepsi had made their bottles in the shape of my mother's legs, Coca-Cola Corporation would be a penny stock today. My goal however, was motivated by my memory of one of her naked breasts. I'd never even heard of cunt. If I succeeded in exposing both of her nursing bottles to me, I would title myself Calvin the Conquerer. Her tall, sturdy girdle left far too much to the imagination. Her reaction to my second theft left none.

Expecting the worst, I awaited her in the living room "in one minute". Mother entered and sat down beside me on the couch. She had not put on a skirt to conceal her dove white girdle. Her semitransparent stockings smoothed over each of her legs without run or blemish.

"I'm not going to beat you again Calvin. This strange obsession of yours has me worried, and I want you to know that I will try whatever it takes to cure you. Obviously, physical punishment has failed." She left the conversation open ended.

Take off your bra mommy, and let me jack off all over your tits, and I'll be fine, I heard the base of my skull comment. I sniffed to conceal my internal chagrin.

"But mommy, all I want to do is wear your blouse." I tried pouting.

She looked at me strangely.

"Calvin," Mother asked me very slowly. "Do you wish you were a girl?"

"No!" I blurted, then I hesitated, "I-I don't think so." I suddenly wondered if there was an answer that would move her closer to my goal. Unfortunately, my first outburst came from a straight boy's natural commitment to his sex. Fortunately, I shrouded my words with a shred of doubt. Unfortunately, I was sporting the hardest erection my pants ever had to contain.

"It isn't right for a boy to want to be…" She glanced down at my zipper. "…be uh, something other than uh, a boy." Her voice fell to a whisper. "But sometimes God has reason to confuse us." Her eyes confronted mine patiently. They held no shame at their brief distraction at my erect dick.

"What does God want me to be?" I tried to play the innocent, striving to casually cover my lap with my hands.

"He wants you to be good and not steal your mother's clothes."

Round Six: Mom – 6, Calvin – Zero. I guess she'd earned the previous point too.

Round seven didn't happen for another two weeks. My mother's reaction had blown me away. Still, I didn't let pass that brief moment when mother noticed my hard cock tenting my pants. It was important, I knew it instinctively, but having only an upper body centric eroticism I was unable to understand either her glance or her willingness to wear underwear right next to me.

I acted without purpose or plan when round seven finally occurred. One early morning, I got up to use the bathroom, but mother was showering. My piss hard-on wasn't desperate so for some reason I wandered into her bedroom where I found her clothes neatly laid out on her bed. I picked up the bra and wrapped it around my chest, but I didn't fasten it. I simply held it together behind me. I didn't even put my arms through the straps. They fell down against my belly and sides. I was imagining her breasts filling this inexplicable contraption, not my own flat chest. After a few moments I returned the bra as closely to it's original place as I remembered. I turned to her less fascinating, but still intriguing girdle. I picked it up.

"Go ahead and try them on." Her soft voice surprised me. Mother had entered the room behind me.

I turned around, ready to bolt through the door, but her quiet composure reassured me. She was wearing three towels. I was wearing my jockey shorts.

"Uh, I guess I don't really feel like it." I fumbled once again.

"Okay, that's fine." She nodded plainly. "Now scram. Mommy has to dress."

Exactly one week later, I asked her again.

"Mom, can I wear your clothes?"

Mother looked surprised for the very first time. "Calvin, what do you really want? Can't you just simply ask for that?"

I very much wanted to ask her to strip naked for me so I could beat my rampant cock in front of her and spew my cum, hopefully dousing her with it, drenching her with my cum. Instead, I asked her an even stupider question.

"Can I wear those clothes?" I said, and I meekly pointed at her widow black, extra plain blouse.

"Do you mean, the clothes I'm wearing right now?" Mother asked apparently beguiled by the possibility. Later on, I learned that she never considered the idea that her son just wanted to strip her naked. That sort of motivation wouldn't have occurred to her. Not only was she a prude herself, she naturally assumed that I was sufficiently indoctrinated and far too young to harbor anything but innocent evils. Instead, she had constructed an entirely different rationale for my requests to wear women's clothes. She thought her only child was confused about his gender or possibly his sexual orientation. Mother didn't know what to make of my more specific request. "This?" She queried and plucked at her upright collar.

I nodded meekly.

She just looked at me, incredulous. A few eternal moments later, an odd gleam lit in her eyes. "Calvin, do you wish you were the mommy?" Evidently she had been extremely careful before wording her question.

The idea never occurred to me. Why would I want to be a mommy? I could easily see myself as the new daddy in the house, but her question was so strange, I had to consider it, and all that she might have not been asking. Even if I was the last boy on the clue boat, nothing could have stopped me from grabbing the tiller.

"Would you let me be the mommy?" I asked as cautiously as cats stalking a baby bird fallen out of her nest.

My mother should have hesitated, right then. She should have at least let her lip tremble. She continued to meet my eyes.

"What would you do if you were the mommy?"

I'd send you to bed without any clothes, tie you up, and fuck your sweet tits! My hard-on was merciless with possibilities. My eyes cast low and I paused for frantic thinking. What could I do? Suddenly a whole world of possibilities opened up before me, but I was far too inexperienced to be handed the keys to the kingdom of heaven.

"I-I dunno." I had to say something.

"Don't ask about my clothes again until you know." She shut the conversation down with knife edge certainty.

Round seven: Mother scores again.

As scary as our last round had wound up, I was ready for another by the following week. We had been working in the yard that day, and both of us were sunburned. The house was hot and one tablespoon of butter each was our only relief.

Mother still wore her plain black dress. It was somewhat soiled with grass and earth. I had on a pair of cutoffs and an old, worn out, short sleeved white shirt. My arms felt like they were about to shrivel up from heat and fall off. Before I knew it I began the next round.

"If I were you, mom I'd make you do all the work out there."

"Would you now?" She looked up, unimpressed. Working hands intimidate the devil.

"I'd make you wear stupid clothes and tell you when to go to bed and decide what to eat and when to go to church which would be never." I was in a bit of pain and feeling sorry for myself. I looked at my feet. I half expected her to step over and slap me.

When she didn't, I looked up and that weird, cautious expression had scrunched her face. This time I was ready for her, or so I thought.

"Mom, can I wear your blouse?" I asked as calmly as I could manage. Already my young prick was hardening. I continued to imagine her unbuttoning her top right in front of me and exposing her wonderfully filled bra.

"You want to wear this blouse?" She asked in return, pulling out the middle of her top into a tiny tent that could have fit four times in the tent in my shorts.

"Yes mommy."

"Would that make you the mommy then?" She asked again.

"Uh-huh." I nodded.

"Well… okay." She said, and then, right before my eyes, her fingers began working at her buttons. It took her all day to unfasten every one, but in reality it took about a minute. Their tiny, tight black dots were finicky to undo. The smooth material began to sag and lower, and the vee at her neck opened wider and deeper.

One minute later, my mother stood a step away from me, almost entirely bare above her skirt, with only the thick frame of a brassier shielding my ultimate fantasy from my eyes. She held out the blouse.

I crossed over to her and accepted it graciously. "Thank you."

I began to don the loose fitting garment. It was clearly cut to fit a woman's shape. It hung unkempt over my shoulders and cast rumples down my arms. The front dangled loose cloth. I remember how soft it felt, like silk, but it was probably rayon. The thing that unsettled me was the smell. I had never before noticed my mother's smell, until I wore her blouse. Like impending rain, or the fresh upturned earth that dotted the garment, her smell was everywhere infused within the threads. I stood nearly stupefied by it's heavy bouquet.

"What does it make you feel like, honey?" My mother asked when all was in its improper place. She then noticed the bulge in my shorts. If she had noticed it before I wore her clothes, she might have said something entirely different. But it's extended glory seemed to settle something for her.

"I feel okay." I told her. Mother ignored my default answer. Apparently, she decided right then I was simply a transvestite, a man who got his jollies from dressing up like a woman. She seemed disappointed.

"Can I wear that too?" I asked overeagerly and pointed at her jutting bra.

"I think we've worn enough of mother's clothes for one day." She had collected herself and answered firmly. Then she left the living room for her own. The last I saw of her naked upper flesh was her pale back, smooth and nearly unblemished. I raced to my room and blasted the contents of my balls at the ceiling.

Round eight: game called due to rain.

The next week I tried a different approach. When I sought her I was garbed entirely in her clothes. She sent me packing, no questions asked.

"Get out of those right now, young man!" She pointed at her bedroom door from the living room couch.

Round nine: 9 to nothing. I had begun to accept the inevitable.

— 3 —

Two weeks later, I made a final, half hearted attempt. I walked out of my morning shower, towel firmly gripped around my waist, and up to my mother's bedroom door.

"Mom, do you have any clothes for me?" I asked across that most evocative of barriers.

"Just a second, Calvin." Mother answered.

I waited.

She opened the door, freshly dressed and stood in the doorway empty handed.

I tried to not stare at her. She was not staring at me but was simply looking at her son with a calm expression on her face. Her hands reached up to her neck and she unfastened the first button.

I stood in utter fascination, immobile, nearly slack-jawed as my mother peeled her dress from her incredible body. This time skirt followed blouse and before I could pinch myself she handed me both, stark naked but for black stockings, white girdle, and cream colored brassier. For a kid like me it was as stark naked as I was standing in front of her wearing one towel. Fortunately this time, when I took her things, I used them to block her curious glance at my loins. A tent had formed there about the time she'd released her middle buttons.

Apparently pleased with her success, she turned away and retired into her room, shutting the door behind her.

I walked like a zombie to my room where I recovered enough sense to drop her clothes, discard the towel and grab my aching prick! I blew several wads into the towel and collapsed on my bed. When I finally escaped my room, I was wearing both of my mother's clean things, struggling to keep from tripping over the oversized skirt. I tied it in a knot to keep it on my waist, and the blouse was tucked in firmly, stretching flat its slackness wherever it would.

I found mom in the kitchen, sitting at the table. She was wearing only her bra, girdle, and stockings.

"Good morning, Mommy." She greeted me. I immediately sensed her unease. I didn't know it at the time, but we weren't we playing my game anymore. I was playing her's.

"Uh, hi." I returned awkwardly.

"I made my bed this morning and washed and even brushed my teeth. I hung the towels up to dry, and I filled the washer with my dirty clothes." She informed me in a meek, girl's voice.

"That's uh, real nice, eh, Dear." I tried.

"What should I do now, M-Mommy?" Her speech quickly degenerated.

What the heck was going on? What should I say? If I hadn't just jacked off three times, I might have tried to get more of her clothes, but I must have been blessed that day.

"Maybe you'd better go study your lessons." I suggested. It was what mother always told me to do when I had failed to occupy myself sufficiently. The mistake I made was, my mother wasn't taking any classes.

She surprised me then.

We have a piano in our house. It's an old wooden upright, made cheaply in its time but is probably somewhat valuable as an antique. It was never tuned nor played as far as I knew, but it made a great shelf for ceramic knickknacks. My mother rose from the table and went into the living room. After overcoming no little worry about my mom, I followed her.

She removed everything from the keyboard cover and folded it back, exposing yellowed and black faux ivory. Then she lifted the lid on the bench seat and produced an even older looking sheet of music from the bench's contents. I didn't have to look at the sheet to know what it said. I was a kid and peeked into the bench seat regularly. That music was titled, 'The Merry-Widow Waltz'.

I didn't know my mother could play the piano. When she began, she was sitting on the bench, posture perfect, striking keys and beating time very much like the score intended. Soft and melodic, her music caught me more than by surprise, it caught me like a mercy trap meant for small animals. I'd walked right into it, and the entrance had shut delicately behind me. For the rest of the morning I listened to my scantily clad mother relearn how to play the piano.

Eventually she looked up at the clock and said sweetly. "I'm hungry."

I wouldn't have known noon from sunset. While I originally wanted to just stare at her gorgeous, naked figure, I became entranced by beauty unexpected. I failed to answer her. Her music still danced in my head.

When I didn't reply, she told me in her full, adult voice, "Calvin, maybe you'd better take those clothes off."

Round ten: no contest.

The day left me with a lot to think about and several reliable hard-ons that blew geysers. All this time I thought I had been really clever, lucky, and downright evil. But now, everything was changed. I wasn't stripping my mother so much as she was transforming both of us. Outside of having dressed me in her clothes and act like a little girl, mother remained the same. We went to church, she ironed my stupid white shirts, and I felt trapped in a childhood without much joy other than jacking off and now trying to figure out when I could get mother to disrobe again.

My next chance occurred sooner than later. Not quite a week after mother played the piano, I brought up the subject.

"Mom, would you play the piano for me?"

"Absolutely not, Calvin. Music is a vehicle of the Devil's will." It was like she had never played. Therefore, I followed a child's logic.

"Can I wear your clothes again?"

"Why would you want to do that?" She asked indignantly.

"Uh, so I could be the mommy?"

She didn't say anything after that. She gave me a curious look then scanned down the length of her black dress and returned her eyes to me.

"Did you mean these clothes?" She gave a nod indicating her luscious body.

"Yes, Mommy."

"Ask me again, a little later." And that was that.

Round… heck that wasn't a round. It was an intermission.

The next day I asked her again. We were playing a game of scrabble at the kitchen table.

"Mom, what's that thing you wear under your blouse?"

"It's my bra, Calvin." Mother always answered a straight question. You just had to be careful about what question to ask. Once I'd asked her about masturbation. She looked me in the eye and told me it was a one way ticket to hell. My dad was still alive to console me back then, and afterward I never asked mom another question about sex.

She placed a new word on the board. "'Suffrage', double word score, thirty two points.

"Can I wear your bra?"

Mother finished writing down her score. She was about a hundred points ahead of me. She looked up and asked, "You want to wear this one?" She pointed offhandedly at her chest.

"Yes mommy, very much so." My heart raced at the thought she might take it off in front of me. I again had rushed her.

"Uh, let's finish the game, okay?" Her voice seemed to falter from its usual precision confidence.

So we did. We finished the game. She beat me by a hundred and fifty points, and she congratulated me on how high a score I'd earned. She kept track of my game points after every game so I could see my improvement over time. It was a lesson I wish I had learned around that time. I wasn't playing a game against my mother. I was playing it against myself. Mother had a private reason for playing.

After she helped me put the game away, every tile stacked neatly in the box, she ambled into her bedroom. I wandered around the house until I found myself studying the living room bookshelves for something to read.

"Calvin, come here." Mother commanded out of her bedroom. I walked down the hall and knocked once.

She opened the door. Standing very straight and tall, her bedroom light cast her shadow upon me in the dimmer hall. "I want you to know I'm absolutely against this."

"What mother?" I didn't understand what there was to be against. She'd just commended me on a good scrabble score.

"This." And with concern set fiercely in her dark face she seemed to be betrayed by her hands. Once more, they reached to the collar of her dress and began to unbutton it. I stood confused before her while she stripped, as I was too young to comprehend an internal struggle. What I saw was my mother's stern expression melting away as she efficiently unfastened her dress. Before I could speak, she was pulling the blouse off her arms, her sturdy bra shaking and bobbing. My eyes bobbled in response. My young male member awoke and pressed it's case against my pants.

When mother handed her blouse to me, she dropped it in my waiting hands with a last snort. My mother was very stern and strict, but she had never snorted before! Finally, it dawned upon me. Mother was only half finished. Her arms reached around behind her pale torso and began to wrestle with the clasp of her bra.

I felt my breath leave my lungs. My dick flounced once, sort of like a dog rolling over and sitting up straight as a arrow aimed at the waiting bone. It was everything I had dreamed of.

The straps behind fell suddenly at her sides and her breasts, captured within, pushed the large cups out farther but fell lower. Mother had closed her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders, once, twice, and both upper straps fell to her arms. Her bra nearly fell off. Mounds of tit flesh poured out from behind their cage. The grand valley between them opened for the first time to my view. My eyeballs sucked in their glorious revelation. I almost reached for my rock solid cock.

"Turn around." Mother ordered, and I complied. I was well conditioned to heed mother's commands. My expectations crashed hard. I turned my head around last, attempting to burn the nearly bare sight of her fabulous mounds into my retinas. I closed my eyes to view their shadows cast upon the inside of my eyelids.

I heard my mother step up behind me. I prayed to god and the devil that she might brush her naked tits against my back. I would have cum in my pants if she had.

Instead, she reached under my arms and placed her brassier around my chest. She guided my arms through its gigantic shoulder loops and quickly fastened its slack back strap behind me. I had to drop her blouse on the carpet while she tucked my slight body into her large bra. Upon completion, she pressed on my shoulder to turn me back around.

The first full view of my mother's naked breasts were in close up. My eyes were only three inches higher than her nipples and less than an inch away. They poked out at me like curious antennae. I inhaled and nearly fainted. I wanted to kiss them so badly! I wanted to suck on them and run the length of my tumescent prick around their bulges. I would have laved them with clear pre-cum and drowned them afterwards in dazzlingly white jism.

Mother said in her quiet, intermediate voice, "Let's get the rest of you together." She leaned down and picked up her black top from the floor. I almost fell over following the sight of her pale but firm bosoms. A minute later my mother, totally naked from the waist up began to fasten the buttons of the dress she had carefully stripped off of her own skin.

I stood just outside her door, now dressed in her upper garments. Mother very quickly followed with her skirt. She held it open upon the floor and bade me, step into it's waist band. Soon she was tying it tight to my waist. Clad only in her black transparent stockings and her flat, white girdle, she returned to her room.

She walked away from me for a couple steps then stopped dead still.

"Mommy, would you read a bedtime story to me?" She asked in a very small voice.

At first I nodded, unable to respond so quickly to her transformation. It was a pointless gesture as her back was turned to me. My thoughts were clogged with visions of breast feeding at my mother's tits.

"I-I guess so." I stammered. "Yeah, um, what would you like to hear?"

"My favorite is, Hippolyta the Amazon Queen." She went to her personal bookcase and retrieved a book of greek stories. I entered cautiously, lest some new twist of character assaulted me. My mother's black skirt caused me no end of concern for tripping and falling.

Naked, my mother returned holding out the book to me.

I nearly dropped it as I continued to stare at her unclad breasts. If only I dared to touch them, but my heart knew that was not allowed.

My most fond dream was quickly becoming a nightmare. I could look all I wanted, but one touch might have lost it forever. My cock didn't know the difference and tried desperately to leap from my loins and bury itself between her tits.

After an impromptu impression of Charlie Chaplin, I secured a grip on the book. Mother went to her bed and slid under the covers. I followed and sat on the edge of her bed. Fortunately the room was warm, and she didn't cover up her stripped torso.

Warm? I was sweating!

I opened the book and found the chapter list. As I began to read the story, my mother gained a very peaceful look in her eyes. I had never seen her so at ease. All throughout the reading, I would glance at her, mesmerized by her inner beauty, agonized by her lustful proximity. It was a terrible reading. I found many of the words and nearly all of the names unpronounceable.

"That was wonderful!" She told me, and before I knew it she had sit up and grabbed me. Up until this moment, my mother had never hugged me. I did cum in my pants, right then. Her naked flesh was only stopped from touching mine by her own clothing. "Thank you, Mommy." She cried in her small voice, and she kissed me chastely on the cheek.

I held onto her for as long as she let me. The warm stain in my trousers turned cool. Fortunately, it didn't penetrate into the skirt wrapped loosely around it. I breathed normally for the first time next to my naked mom.

When she released me, I felt a new rush of emotions. I turned to envelope her in my own hug, but she had already changed the light in her eyes.

"Sorry honey, time to go to bed."

What round were we on?

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/2ov9rn/ill_be_a_mommys_uncle_13_fm_inc_regression_xdress