The next hour is uncomfortable and painfully boring. You bust in less than a minute, spend a few moments cleaning yourself up, and -- as per your usual routine -- toss the thimble-sized wad of sticky toilet paper as far as you can behind your parents' nightstand. Your father, as usual, wakes up around six and leaves the room to get ready for work -- unfortunately, his office is on the other side of the house and you won't be rid of the nagging worry that he decides to put his hands on you.
A little before seven, your mother finally stirs.
She's slow to wake up, and spends the next ten minutes alternately opening her eyes and drifting back into short, sporatic bursts of sleep. Eventually, you stand up, gripping the edge of the cardboard box like a balcony, and her half-open eyes catch the movement. Her dry lips fold into an inviting smile and she gives you a little wave.
Without breaking eye contact, she reaches her right arm back behind her to feel the other side of the bed. You give her a confused look, and then it clicks -- she's checking to see if your father is there. But why?
As she sits up, the covers slide off and expose her. One strap of her nightdress has slid off her shoulder and onto her arm, and one massive mammary is hanging out invitingly, barely restrained in the confines of her white bra. Your mother is a, for lack of a better word, very maternal woman -- tall, full-figured, and blessed with voluptuous, perky breasts. She slides the strap back onto her shoulder and -- right there, with you watching -- slips her other hand inside the neckline and adjusts her off-kilter bra cup.
Through the fabric of your pants, you press your engorged penis into the side of the box and shudder slightly.
She makes no move towards you and instead disappears into the closet, emerging a couple of minutes later wearing a floor-length skirt in dark flower patterns and a sleeveless pink blouse with a plunging neckline. Without pausing to look at you, she scoops you up in one hand and holds you loosely by her side as she heads to the kitchen. As her warm fingers encompass your body, you twist and make sure the baton between your legs is pressing into her palm. The action leaves you nervous, uncertain -- you glance up at her and await a response.
If she notices, she doesn't say anything.
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