The Rambler part 2b - Sex Stories

The Rambler part 2b

... see what kind of panties she was wearing, if any. But I daren't let go, for I was now squeezing that breast and even pinching its nipple, tugging it through that thin sweater, and Mom was letting me. I didn't want to lose that, or the feeling of her bottom pressing back whenever I pulled and rolled her exquisite, hard and long nipple. Mom turned to me for another really long set of deep kisses during which I managed to lower my hand and slide it up underneath her sweater to play with both breasts. How fantastic to be with a real woman instead of a girl. A woman who, instead of giggling and trying to bat my hands away, arched her back to push her tits deeper into my hands, who relished the way my fingers pinched and tugged her nipples, lifting the full weight of her tits right off her chest. A woman that moaned into my mouth as my knee threaded between hers, my thigh pressing tightly against her pussy, loving the return thrust of her hips rubbing her pubes along my leg. The movie ended shortly after that and as the lights came on so people could more easily find their way to the concession, I realized that I had been totally unaware of what was transpiring in the backseat. I had been completely engrossed in my own affairs. Mom turned onto her tummy and looked over the reclined seat to talk to Millie, holding her beaker out for Tim to refill it with wine, as he did for his mother. He and I abstained while the mothers talked. We didn't even talk to each other. We were each ...

... engrossed with the woman in our own end of the Rambler. I tickled Mom's back as she talked, swooping in slow circles the length and breadth of her soft skin, caressing her neck and dipping into the concave hollow of her waist, tracing her shoulder blades and delving into the groove of her spine to the small of her back, trailing my fingertips along the waistband of her skirt. It was on one such trip that I unexpectedly embarked upon a new path, my finger tracing a line straight down the middle of Mom's skirt, along the crevice between the twin rises of her buttocks until it fell off the end of the pleated skirt into the canyon formed by her closed legs, and then ticked the backs her thighs down to her knees. She parted her legs on the return trip, allowing my delving fingers to reach more of her tender inner thighs, welcoming me under her skirt where I tickled the bottom of her panties where the fleshy part of her cheeks escaped their confines. Eventually, I slid up and over. Mom paused only briefly, in mid-sentence, the only sign she yielded that her son was now brazenly caressing her ass. I thought she allowed it because the others couldn't see and a protest would only call attention to the fact of it. So minute after minute slid by and I slipped and slid, poked and prodded, cupped and scratched, exploring every inch of Mom's perfect, womanly bottom. I discovered that Mom was wearing a pair of thoroughly modern panties, the kind only models wore back in those days. They barely ...