Beyond the Borderline

I remember the first time I snuck into her room and rummaged in her underwear drawer. Even though she was long gone for a day's work in the City, I was so nervous, I shook like a baby's rattle. Running my trembling hands over the lacy cups of one of her brassieres, I became hard as a brick. Rubbing my fingertips over the shiny smoothness of one of her nylon granny panties, I almost came without touching myself.

When I pulled my shorts down and got my cock out, the moment I slid my glans across the gusset of her briefs, I shot a huge load all over my hands and the panties. I almost passed out from the pleasure and the excitement of doing something so forbidden, so nasty. When I finally came down from orbit, though, I knew I was in trouble. My cum was everywhere, coating my hands, splooged in her panties and dripping on the carpet by her dresser.

I was immediately assailed by terrible guilt. Not only was I a pervert, who whacked off into his own mother's underwear, I had made a huge, disgusting mess in her bedroom. I was doomed and damned all at one instant. Damned for my sinful behavior and horrible thoughts and doomed because I knew in my heart that I would never be able to stop doing it again and again and again.

Frantically, I rushed to obliterate all traces of my transgression. I cleaned myself up and dashed to the laundry room, rinsing Mom's undies in the sink and then throwing them in the bottom of the hamper, out of sight and mind. I flew back upstairs with a sponge and some dish soap and feverishly scrubbed my jizz out of the carpet. I dashed back downstairs to put the cleaning stuff away and then sprinted back to Mom's bathroom, grabbing her hair dryer, which I then used to dry the damp spots on the carpet where I had cleaned my sticky spend out of the shag.

Trembling with anxiety, I bolted to my room, locking the door behind me before I flung myself on the bed. Then I waited, overwhelmed with guilt. I waited for Mom to come home and discover my horrible actions, throwing me out of the house. I waited for Gramps to come home and beat me within an inch of my life. I waited for God to smite me with a thunderbolt, punishing me for my sin.

After about ten or fifteen minutes of waiting for the sky to fall, I realized nothing was going to happen. After thirty minutes, recalling the silky feel of her panties on my dick, I got hard again. Five minutes later, I was back in the laundry room, fishing the still-damp panties from the hamper and retreating to my room for another round of jacking off.

Thus began my relationship with my mother's underwear. Within two weeks, I knew every article by heart; what size (34C bust, size 7 panties), what location in the drawer and the usual order of use. I never escaped the feelings of guilt and shame when I spunked her panties, but I simply couldn't help myself.

At first, after I saw Mom that day, I couldn't get the visions of her breasts and panty-clad ass out of my head. I was constantly sneaking glances at her, hoping for a flash of thigh or a brief peek of her brassiere through the gaps between buttons in her blouses, or, holy of holies, getting a look up her skirt to see her panties. The more I looked, though, the more I noticed everything about her appearance -- how she combed her hair, put on lipstick or, rarely, eye shadow, what her sense of style was for her work clothes, what kind of pantyhose she used and also her perfume.

I guess at that point, I was beginning to appreciate her as a whole woman for the first time and I surely loved what I saw. It's a given that a guy that age spends a majority of the day with thoughts of jutting asses and jiggling breasts running through his head, but I imagined all that and saw so much more in my mother.

Her arms were shapely, with only the slightest hint of softness that comes with her age. Her legs are...well, to me they're magnificent. Perfectly proportioned for her height, with exquisitely turned calves, they are almost an anachronism, a modern day reincarnation of the great pins of the 50's movie stars. A comparison to Cyd Charisse would be close to the mark in my mind, but I confess a complete lack of impartiality.

As long as I am admitting to bias, let me describe the miracle of skin and muscle that is her ass. It is, in a word, womanly. Not a bubble butt, not adolescent, nor compact. It is beautifully proportioned to the rest of her anatomy, but is...lusciously full, mobile, superbly pear-shaped, flawlessly smooth and topped by a sensational, very sensuous, flared waistline. Whether encased in denim shorts, tight Capri pants or even plain slacks, it is an absolute vision of promise and an invitation to totally forbidden thoughts.

Just to be clear, I would not walk on hot coals to place my hands upon it. For that privilege, I would wade through waist deep lava while gargling sulfuric acid and razor blades. For a chance to caress it, kiss it and otherwise worship it, I would sell my soul, in an instant.

Yeah, I like my Mom's derriere just a little.

I think these features are attractive enough when seen as mere components, but it's how they all work together that makes her beautiful to me. Perhaps because I am used to looking at her every chance I get, I pay more attention, but I think her face is marvelously expressive. Her deep blue eyes can positively dance with mischief, humor and laughter. When she is truly angry with me, a grey coldness creeps in and they dissect my guilty thoughts and actions like scalpels. Fortunately, I have not been on the receiving end of that particular gaze very often. I can recognize at least 8 or 10 different smiles, ranging from "come get your chicken soup" to "come hither right now." That latter smile is why I'm telling this story, of course.

Mom is an extremely observant and perceptive person. She's also very cautious and detail-oriented, as well as being a bit of a control freak, but she has to be in her job. She's the youngest and first female partner at March, Briggs and Dufrense, a moderate sized law firm in the City. She got there by being smarter, nice-tougher and generally harder working than most of the other associates. Once she was hired on, it only took her 4 years to make partner. She specializes in corporate and international law, which is well suited to her careful, meticulous nature. She's a member of the Bar in New York, New Jersey and unusually, a couple Canadian provinces as well. In addition to loving her, having a crush on her, lusting after her greatly and generally adoring her, I admire her tremendously.

As you can probably tell, I have been hopelessly attached to this woman since forever. Of course, the lens of puberty completely changes the focus and perception of a growing boy, and I was no exception. What was once "When I grow up, I'm going to marry you, Mommy!" at 6 years old becomes furtive trips to the laundry hamper for used panties at 13. Is there anything that can compare to the slight residual warmth, intoxicating scent or taste of the gusset in a freshly discarded pair of panties? Not to a young, hyper stimulated teenager, I would guess.

It was at middle school time when I really began to notice Mom as a woman. My voice was deepening, my bones were aching from my growth spurt and there was hair growing in unexpected places. Equipment that was once single purpose developed very interesting and downright startling new capabilities.

Mom almost certainly knew what was happening before I did, and of course she had taught me all the basics at a much younger age, to satisfy my insatiable curiosity. Nana, Gramps and Mom were all kindly tolerant of my withdrawn surliness and generally antisocial interactions as testosterone overran my synapses, but they kept me on track. Gramps was great a getting me settled into my new role as a real guy and second man of the house. Some of that instruction was real old school stuff, very much nose-to-nose and occasionally resulted in prolonged discomfort when sitting, but we got through it okay and I was the better for it.

Academically, I was a good student in school. I had to really bust my ass to excel in math and science, but with much pain and sweat, still managed to do well in these areas. As you might imagine, when it came to grades, Mom took no prisoners. Somehow, though, she always found the right combination of motivations to carry me through any difficulties. She never used her own considerable accomplishments as a yardstick against my own efforts, I think because she knew I would do that myself. There was an unspoken assumption that, of course, I would give a maximum effort in any subject I studied. She had high expectations, but also seemed to have a sixth sense for what represented my best efforts, and never criticized me when she knew I had done my best on something and had come up a little short. I loved her very much for that.

Towards the end of middle school, Mom was gearing up in her push to becoming a partner at her law firm and I was spending more and more time on homework. Our chances to spend time together seemed to be dwindling to nothing. I think both of us sensed this subconsciously, but for me it showed in a general increased crankiness and more arguments with Mom. After a particularly irrational outburst, which centered around difficulties with my math homework, Mom sat me down and slowly, painfully extracted the truth from me.

"All right, Ricky. What is your major maladjustment here? You can't tell me that all of this venom you've been spewing lately is just from problems with quadratic equations. You've been exceptionally rude and ungrateful lately and I want to know why. Are you having problems with someone at school? Is it something to do with girls?"

"Mooommm!"

Girls and sex were a very sensitive topic. I was thinking about them constantly. If I went more than fifteen or twenty minutes without fantasizing about fucking some female, it was a rare event. At the time, I was nursing simultaneous crushes on two different girls in my algebra class and secretly lusting after my French teacher, Mrs. DuPre and the lady next door, Myra Gordon. A few months before, I had discovered the delicious secrets of Mom's used panties as well, which was a source of tremendous excitement as well as secret self-loathing. I felt like such a perv whenever I spunked in them, thinking of her, but I absolutely couldn't help myself.

"I thought so. I had a feeling that the testosterone level has been rising around here lately," she chuckled. "You can't fool your old Mom when it comes to this stuff - you're a glass of water to me," she said, with a kind, all-knowing smile.

"God Mom, you're embarrassing the crap out of me!"

Placing her hand on mine, she gave me a squeeze and said softly, "Ricky, the very last thing I want to do is to make you uncomfortable or embarrassed, but I have noticed some changes lately. You know I won't judge you on this. I just want to know that you're okay. Okay?"

"Okay, Mom," I sighed. "It's really hard to talk about though, I have so many confusing feelings about it all."

"Why don't you start by telling me who it is you think is pretty?"

"Well, in my math class, there's Sally McPhee and Grace Kim. They're really cute and nice," I said in a rush. "I've talked to them a little bit, a couple of times, and I've seen Grace smile at me once."

"I don't know Sally, but I met Grace and her mom and dad at the last parent-teacher day. If her mother is any indication, Grace is going to grow into a gorgeous young woman. She also struck me as a very kind, genuine person. You've got very good taste, hotshot!" she concluded.

That made me feel real good to hear Mom say that, and I felt a little better opening up to her. "Uhhh, there's a bit more though, and it's this stuff that has me more confused," I confessed uncomfortably.

Mom looked at me a bit speculatively and pursed her lips in thought, finger rubbing absently under her lower lip.

"Well," she drawled, "Unless I miss my guess, I'm thinking that you are having more -shall we say- explicit thoughts about someone, and this is what's troubling you."

I stared at Mom aghast. She seemed to be looking through a window into my most private feelings. It felt as though she was reading my mind and knew everything about my secrets. It was at once alarming and strangely, a little bit exhilarating.

"I've seen you staring at Myra Gordon's bottom, you know."

Myra was our next-door neighbor. "Jesus, Mooommmm!" I felt like crawling into a hole and pulling it closed behind me.

"What about that is not perfectly normal?" she inquired, in a puzzled tone. "Surely your friends talk about who's hot and who's not, right? It's also entirely okay to be attracted to older women too, you know. I've overheard you talking with Jack Hamilton about Mrs. DuPre's 'enormous rack.' I also heard you threaten to punch him out when he said I was hot. (That was so sweet of you, by the way.) Your stick-in-the-mud old mom knows exactly what a 'MILF' is," she concluded, an amused twinkle in her eyes.

If I could have blushed any harder at that point, I would have burst into flames. "Mom, you're killing me! I'm soooo embarrassed!"

"You're an absolutely normal young man," she stated emphatically. "How on earth could I be upset that you feel this way about girls and women? I just hope that when you have more serious questions about girls and relationships that you'll continue to talk with me. There's no topic that is off limits there - if you'll be honest with me, I promise to never, ever judge you and I'll give you the best practical advice I can, if you want it."

"Thanks, Mom. It's just really hard to talk to someone about this stuff, but I'll try to be honest."

Mom took my hands in hers and looked at me seriously.

"Are we still best friends?"

Swallowing with difficulty, I simply nodded.

"Then you know that you can absolutely trust me, right?"

Smiling and touching my cheek, she continued, "I know sometimes that a guy needs to talk with another guy about some of this sex related stuff, but I also know that Gramps is not exactly the easiest person in the world to approach when it comes to this kind of thing."

Mom was right on the mark about Gramps. In many ways, he fulfilled a lot of the needs that a growing boy has for a father figure, but when it came to women and sex, I guess his worldview was colored by the experience of Mom's teenage pregnancy.

"The only thing I'm going to hold you to is being honest," she said kindly. "I know how hard it can be talking with your old Mom about this kind of thing, but please don't keep any secrets from me - there is nothing, I repeat, nothing that you could say which would upset me in any way. Even if you told me you liked boys more than girls," she concluded.

"Ewwwww, that is soooo gross, Mom!"

"I happen to know that's not true, anyway," she said in a matter of fact tone. "But I do believe that there's still someone you're attracted to that you haven't told me about, right?"

My secret shame burned within me like a small welder's arc and my tongue felt like it was hewn from granite. I wanted so much to say what was really on my mind, but I was terribly afraid of what would happen. Head bowed, swallowing with great difficulty, I tried to speak but somehow, a twenty-pound rock had materialized in my throat, choking off the forbidden words written in my heart.

Reaching across the table, Mom put her hand under my chin, forcing me to look up. I couldn't meet her eyes. Speaking quietly, encouragingly, she tried to coax my acknowledgement.

"It's okay, sweetheart. I promise I won't be mad, whatever you say, whoever it might be. I promise."

Try as I might, I was mute with fear. Finally meeting her gaze, lower lip trembling, I gave up, shamefully shaking my head.

Taking my hands in hers, Mom put me out of my misery, softly saying the words I couldn't bear to speak.

"It's me, isn't it, Ricky?" she asked gently.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I was choked with emotion. "God Mom, I'm soooo sorry, but I can't help it! You make me feel so good when I think about you, you're so beautiful and sexy, but I know it's wrong, so wrong! I feel excited and awful at the same time - I'm a horrible pervert! How can you even look at me?"

There it was, out in the open. I loved my mom, as a son, but wanted her so much as a woman.

Mom smiled kindly and enveloped me in a big hug, kissing the top of my head. "You poor sweet boy. That secret must be tearing you up inside. It's okay honey. Truly. It's okay," she soothed. "What you're feeling is normal - N-O-R-M-A-L," she spelled out.

"I've known for some time now how you felt, but you need to know it's perfectly okay for a fella your age to have those feelings. It's really one of the biggest, best compliments a growing young man can pay to his mom. I'm not mad at all. Actually, I'm VERY flattered that I can get a hunky, young guy all riled up at my age -- but more importantly, I still love my son this minute as much as I did before he told me, okay?"

"Okay," I agreed with tremendous relief. "But Mom, you don't look old at all. All of my friends say you're a real babe," I added somewhat boldly.

She laughed and ruffled my hair. "I'm going to have to watch myself around you, handsome. You're already turning into quite the smooth talker," she said warmly and strangely, with a little bit of pride.

Somewhat more seriously, she added, "Ricky, you just joined a club with about a billion other members. I wouldn't worry about your feelings towards me for another second. You're going to find out soon enough that this is just a phase you're going to go through. It's an almost universal phenomenon in young guys. You'll work through it just fine and be okay when you come out on the other side of this - you'll probably even laugh about it then, and I'll laugh with you," she said wistfully.

"My boy is turning into a young man," she sighed, giving me another big hug.

Feeling greatly relieved, I got around to the other thing that was bothering me.

"Mom, I think we've lost some of the time we used to be able to spend together. It seems that all we can do occasionally is to watch a movie, but then we're both so busy with other stuff, I don't know what to do. I guess I just miss being with you, you know, hanging out. I'd really like to spend more time with you."

"Well, you've said a real mouthful there, bucko. I'm feeling a little bit the same way, but you know things can and have to change over time, especially as you grow up some more. You've got your own life to live and build and part of that is being more your own person, spending more time doing things you must do and want to do for yourself. I'm not going to spend extra time with you at the expense of your regular friends, athletics or your schoolwork."

She looked past me, eyes focused on some thought she was developing. "Tell you what, sport. We don't have enough hours in the day for all the things we want to do, so we'll have to make lemonade out of our lemons. Let's go to the kitchen. Momma's gonna teach you how to help with the cooking. That way we get a little more time together but we don't have to take time away from the other things we need to accomplish."

"Mom! I'm a GUY! Guys don't do that kind of stuff!"

"Indeed!" she snorted in amusement. "You know Bobby-Joe Boudreaux?"

"Duh, of course, Mom. He's the Cajun bar-b-que king on the Restaurant Channel."

"I'll have you know that he's one our firm's clients. He owns 5 restaurants, employs at least 200 people and is pulling down over a million a year, AFTER taxes. A casino in Las Vegas is after him to open a named restaurant in a deal that on its own is going to be worth at least 4 times that much all by itself."

She then dug the knife in a little further. " I also happen to know that he owns a Jag XK and a Lamborghini Gallardo, along with a condo overlooking Central Park." She then whispered conspiratorially, "I'm pretty sure he has at least 3 or 4 girlfriends in his current collection and I've heard that one of them models for Victoria's Secret!"