He kept up the stroke until it was done, and then his come soaked hand slathered his cock and balls and he kept stroking and massaging himself.“Come...here,” I heard myself say. He walked to the hedge, his hand still massaging himself, his young face in an erotic trance. He could not see me below the neck, but I could see him from head to toe. “Do it again,” I heard myself say, and at once, my hands worked my own organ as he played his. It popped back up to full throttle in seconds, and as he. "It's fine, Martin. Do what you need to do," she pleaded.Reluctantly, I moved towards the toilet and pulled down my pants and underwear far enough to relieve myself. As I did this, I glanced in the wall mirror opposite the bathtub. I saw my mother absent-mindedly squeezing water from a washcloth all over her body. She would occasionally splash water over her pleasantly abundant breasts.I studied my mother's body. She wasn't much more than 5'4" and maybe 125 or 130 pounds. At the time, she was. More

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