Mom panty stories

Added: Jennel Bencomo - Date: 23.11.2021 20:12 - Views: 39637 - Clicks: 6765

A short story about my mother's panties, how they excited me, the pleasure they brought me, and the surprising way Mom responded. Jessica smiled sympathetically and reached across the kitchen table. She took my hand and squeezed it, offering comfort and support.

The kids can look after themselves for a few days, or I can get my sister to keep an eye on them. It was so Jessica. Discuss, decide, do. No fussing around. No second-guessing. And once the decision is made, give it her full support, no matter if she agrees or not. To her, dithering is a waste of time and energy.

It was one of the many personality traits that made me love her like crazy, even after almost two decades. Sixteen hours later I turned the rented Chevy into the unassuming drive of a moderate bungalow, one of many in the small residential development built back in the fifties. I parked and climbed out. The scent of freshly mowed grass filled the air. It pleased me to see the lawn trimmed, taken care of.

The gardening service I'd arranged for was doing what they'd been contracted to do; a rare occurrence in my experience. I leaned on the Chevy roof, the door still open, and looked down the street. Each house showed caring owners: yards neat and tidy; bungalows of different sizes, some with attached garages, some with carports; all homes a mix of brick and painted wooden siding, the colors of which provided most of the differentiation.

In my mind's eye, I saw the families that had lived here so long ago: the Kendrick's with three kids, one, Jimmy, a friend I'd grown up with; the Farhavens and their daughter Betsy who'd been my first Mom panty stories, blonde and blossoming; Mr. Larsen, the only widow on the street, kindly and always ready to fix my punctured bike tires; and Mr. Gerald in the bright red painted house, Mrs.

Closing the Mom panty stories door, I opened the back, grabbed my overnight case and headed up the drive. Two white columns supported a peaked overhang covering the porch. A white wicker chair sat empty to one side. Mom liked to sit out on it and watch life go by in the close-knit neighborhood.

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Fishing in my pocket, I found her key ring and opened the white front door. Familiar scents washed over me when I stepped inside; furniture polish and perfume - Mom's specter still haunting the house. A pile of mail littered the floor. Closing the door, I paused. Not much had changed through the years. This Mom panty stories the home I'd grown up in. It was the home my mother and I shared, my father having passed away far too young from lung cancer. This was the house where I'd laughed with my mother, where we'd argued, where I'd been spanked at four years old for coloring on the walls in the hall.

I dropped the overnight case and wandered into the living room. Memories rushed back at the sight of familiar furniture lovingly taken care of. The old television in the corner was the same, needing several minutes Mom panty stories warm up before I could watch Saturday morning cartoons; The JetsonsFred and Barney in the FlintstonesMighty Mouse.

The couch was the same - solid wood with floral upholstery, two matching armchairs, and a solid wood coffee table. I remembered Mom being so proud of the new pale yellow wall-to-wall carpet and how well it went with the cream painted walls. She'd painted the wooden trim a matching yellow herself. And I remembered how soft the carpet felt on my bare feet in the mornings. To the left, the mahogany dining table reflected light coming through the sliding glass doors facing the back yard. Dust had collected on the surface.

Mom wouldn't have let that happen. In my mind's eye, I saw her polishing it with Pledge, then adjusting the centerpiece, a porcelain spring flower basket. Walking through the dining room, I studied framed photographs on the wall and side cabinet. There I was at three years old, in formal pants and shirt after Dad's funeral, looking somber and holding Mom's hand. Despite the sadness in her face, Mom was beautiful back then. Her black dress, black nylons, conservative black shoes, a small black hat with the veil up, and black gloves and handbag couldn't hide her looks.

Next to it, in a fancy silver frame, Dad and Mom looked so young, radiantly happy newlyweds.

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She'd been so pretty at twenty-one, her life ahead of her, optimistic, in love. Dad, despite his serious expression, showed pride. He'd landed a beautiful woman. She'd chosen him. It was in his stance, his chest out, standing tall and slender. I feel like I'm a kid again.

Everything I look at brings back memories. I'm not sure I want to get rid of things. It might take more than two days. If you want, put everything in storage and we'll deal with it together later, when it's easier. Are you sure you don't want help? I hung up and entered the kitchen. White cupboards, thick with paint, framed the kitchen window, the curtains pulled to the sides.

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The tap at the sink dripped slowly. The speckled Formica counter was uncluttered, unlike when I'd Mom panty stories young. Back then, Mom always had something cooking or baking, providing for two. I wondered if she felt lonely after I married and moved away. She claimed not, but I didn't believe her. Two porcelain jars with pretty painted daisies held kitchen spoons, spatulas, and other implements.

The electric stove was olive green, matching the old Frigidaire refrigerator and an electric Kenwood mixer on the counter. In my mind, I could hear that mixer running, my excitement at Mom baking a chocolate Devil's food cake. I could see Mom, well dressed even when cooking, with her apron on, flouring two pans, and baking chocolate, powdered sugar, butter and a bottle of vanilla on the counter waiting for icing to be made, a double boiler on the stove warming to melt the butter and semi-sweet chocolate squares.

Moving to the small, chrome and Formica kitchen table, I pulled out a chair and sat exactly where I used to as a. I heard Mom chatting away, asking me about school and friends while pouring batter into pans. And I saw her smile at me, her blue eyes bright, blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, her flowery apron. She brought the bowl and spatula over. I could taste the chocolate batter and feel it smear on my cheeks, the spatula too wide for my mouth, and my excitement that the next bowl to be licked clean would be icing - my favorite. Gingham curtains framed the kitchen window, the one Mom used to watch out through as she washed dishes, keeping an eye on me and my Mom panty stories as we built cardboard forts and conducted an intense war, toy cap guns popping.

It made me smile. Getting up, I wandered into the hall, studying more framed photographs intermingled with framed prints of daisies and roses. Mom always loved spring flowers, telling me it reminded her of new life and happiness and possibilities. To my left, I pushed the bathroom door open and glanced in.

The smell of floral soap hit me. The pale pink bathtub, sink, and toilet hadn't changed. Nor had the matching shag pile bath and toilet mats. I moved on. My bedroom door stood open. I glanced in. There was nothing of me left except the bed, desk and dresser.

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But I could picture the disorganized mess I'd live with, posters on the walls, finished model airplanes on the dresser and a partially complete one on the plain oak wood desk. I could see clothes strewn on the floor, my bed unmade. Smiling, I remembered the stash of Playboy magazines I'd thought well hidden from Mom under the mattress; the well thumbed magazines Jimmy had discovered in Mr. Larsen's garbage can and shared with me.

I remembered fondly the excitement I'd experienced seeing my first naked woman, their breasts and full pubic bushes, and how I'd discovered the joy of masturbating - the start of my adolescent journey. It was several years later when Mom told me she'd found the Playboys and left them there, happy enough to know I was a normal teen. It was a telling of Mom's attitude towards sex. As I approached the master bedroom, memories intensified. The door was ajar. I pushed it open and her scent hit me; perfume - Chanel No. The textured chenille bedcover was immaculate, light green and white with small pink roses, the hem touching the floor.

Pale cream carpeting covered the floor. To one side was a small bench chair and table, an oval mirror on top. Small jars Mom panty stories face cream jostled for space with perfume bottles, facial powders, lipstick, eyeliner and mascara, hair pins and rollers, brushes and combs. It had always been the most disorganized spot in the house. I knew the two drawers on either side held even more makeup. Mom had been careful about her appearance, even if it was only for a trip to the grocery store.

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Back then, that's how it was; smart skirts, nylons, blouses, high heels and hair coifed before any appearance in public. A wide dresser on the left, below the window, was neat. More framed photographs were arranged on top.

I stepped over to it and studied them: me at thirteen astride my bicycle, grinning with pleasure at Mom's birthday gift to me, shorts and unlaced sneakers and red football jersey, my hair unruly; me at fifteen, a football under one arm, Jimmy making a face next to me; me at eighteen, dressed in a suit, carnation in the collar, with Betsy in a frilly blue prom dress, Mom panty stories arm through mine.

Was I ever that young? I saw photos of Jessica and me at our wedding, baby photos of my daughter, Lilly, and younger son, Carl, named after my father. Mom had added photos I'd sent to her of birthdays and Christmases - my life she was so proud of. I missed her.

Mom panty stories

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‘mom panties’ stories