Tempted by Tanlines Pt.1 - Sex Stories

Tempted by Tanlines Pt.1

... idea of his hands on her body. It's unpleasant, but I'm thinking about them when my mother asks, "Are you all right, Sean?" I was in the living room, sulking, when she walked in unnoticed. At the sound of her voice, I look up. For once she's wearing clothes -- ready for a night out with him. It galls me to imagine her stripping down for the man. I think she looks stunning with her hair all wavy and loose. She's subtly made up, lips shimmering with pink lip-gloss, eyes ringed with mascara. My mother's in spiked heels, not the bordello whore's platforms I had her wear in my fantasy, but a pair of chic Louboutins that put a delicate curve to her calves and make me wish she wasn't wearing the tight pencil skirt after all. She's elegant and sexy, stylish and gorgeous. On top, as is her style, she's got her large bust squeezed into a blouse that can barely take the strain. I look at her and shrug, eyes lingering -- just for a moment -- on the deep crease between my mother's breasts, the little silver pendant I bought her last Christmas nestled in the valley. The image comes to me. I imagine myself with my face pressed into her cleavage, the picture dissipating when I look at her eyes. "Yeah," I reply, sullen. She pouts with a cocksucker's moue that twitches my dick; then her lips all pink and puckered cause the dirty slide of jealousy, dripping like liquid shit down a drain, when I imagine those lips round his dick. "Well, you don't look all right," says my mother near the door. ...

... I'm sat in one of the armchairs while she's standing. We're both waiting for her mobile to buzz. "I am," I reply, snappy because I'm pissed off and petulant. I don't like being this way but can't shake the feeling. "You sure?" she asks, head canting to one side. The hot sting of tears surprises me. I decide I've got to get out of the room before I embarrass myself and give her cause for concern. What I don't want are her well-intentioned yet probing questions. I nod and rise to my feet while croaking, "Yeah, sure." She follows me, heels pecking the kitchen floor tiles. I'm at the fridge as she approaches. Keeping my back towards her, I reach in for a beer. Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. "You don't like him, do you?" she says as I turn. I pop the tab, chagrined at being so obvious, thankful the tears haven't spilled. I shrug and take a sip and then say, "It's none of my business." She looks at me for a while. I can't tell what's going on behind those eyes, so, nonplussed and awkward at being so physically close to my mother -- I entertain a wild notion about leaning in to kiss her mouth -- I swig from the can and move away to one side. She doesn't let up as I park my backside against the heavy oak table in the middle of the room. "Well, it sort of is, though, isn't it, Sean? If things get serious." She must have seen the blood drain from my face, because my mother hastily goes on to add, "Not that it's anywhere close to serious, I just mean it as a 'what-if?' "There's no ...