Play it safe

"Okay, Mom," you manage to say, your hands still resting on her inner thighs, your eyes fixed to her panty-covered sex, "you can turn over now and I'll work on your front."

"Mmm," she moans contentedly in response as she languidly rolls over. As she slowly turns over onto her back, her loosened bra drops away from one breast, giving you an all too brief glimpse of her nipple. She doesn't react, obviously not knowing that she just flashed her tit to you, as she settles onto her back, her bra falling back into place as she lays there with her eyes closed.

'Here we go,' you think to yourself as you squirt more of the baby oil into your hand, your eyes fixed on her magnificent breasts as you start the slow sensuous massage of her legs. You watch the slow rise and fall of her chest as you work your hands up her thighs, your fingers kneading the tension out of her muscles as you move up her curvy body. Your hand move up to her waist, your fingers lightly tracing over the faint stretchmarks from her pregnancies as you lean over the bed, your eyes fixed on her chest, noticing that you can see her erect nipples through her bra. Your hands caress her sides, sliding up her ribcage until your fingers just barely brush against the cups of her bra. You toy with the idea of sliding your fingers under her bra, wanting nothing more than to cup her magnificent tits in your hands, but you resist the urge, turning your mind back to the massage as your hands move up to her shoulders and arms. Your fingers work at her tense muscles as your eyes are drawn once more to her large breasts. You are so engrossed in admiring her tits that you don't notice your mother's eyes are open and she is watching you until she speaks.

"You like my breasts, don't you, John?" she asks softly as she watches you carefully.

You jump at her voice, tearing your eyes away from her chest as you try to look her in the eyes, your cheeks burning in embarrassment at being caught ogling her. You try to stammer out something but your mind doesn't work fast enough to come up with a response.

"You must like them, John," your mother says, her voice relaxed, almost sleepy, "you've been staring at my chest for the last five minutes."

"Well, Mom..." you begin, your mind still trying to come up with a reasonable excuse. Should you just confess the truth or try to make up a believable story?