“Humph ... mmmm”
“Humph ... mmmm”
“Humph ... mmmm”

The sound in the near darkness was my mom. Dad was fucking her. “Humph” when he thrust into her, “mmmm” when he pulled out. The first was a sound of stress, the last was one of relief. I wondered if she was dry. I’d never seen any indication that my father was sensitive to a woman’s need for foreplay.

I was fifteen in the mid-1960s, living in rural Alabama. Our ranch-style house had two sections: a front half that held the formal living room, den, and kitchen; the rear half that held two bedrooms, one on each end, separated by a hallway off which was the house’s single bathroom and a large pantry-style closet. Our beds were placed so they were in plain view of each other through the hallway. It never occurred to me until adulthood how fucked up that was, and I often wondered if it was by thoughtlessness or by design. My parents were weird.

Mom would often pee with the bathroom door open and, when she had her period, would not flush. I suspected it was her way of telling Dad “No pussy tonight.” She seemed quite inhibited in some ways, such as speaking of anything having to do with a bodily function in a whisper, and either uninhibited or oblivious in other ways, such as changing clothes with the bedroom door open, in view of areas of the den where Dad and I were. Many times, I had been standing in front of the gas heater in the den, watching my mom in almost total nudity. She never once looked to see if anyone was watching.

During the hot, muggy summers Mom would wear short tube tops that barely covered her breasts. She wasn’t well endowed, but they were ample and worth seeing. One time it had slipped down a bit to reveal more of the tops of her breasts than she normally revealed. She and I were sitting at the kitchen table, and Dad was standing next to it. Mom was saying something, I don’t recall what, and Dad interrupted, “Mother,” pause, “Mother,”, pause, “Mother,” like a child wanting attention. When she stopped speaking and looked at him, he slowly reached forward with a pointing finger, almost touching the exposed flesh, having a little smirky grin on his face. Mom pulled the top up, looked away and continued with what she was saying. For him to do that right in front of me, I’ve wondered if his intent was to make sure I saw what little was exposed. It wasn’t much. Bathing suits of the day showed more.

They fucked a couple of times a week when Mom wasn’t on her period. I never heard any sounds of pleasure from her. One night, Mom said, “Women are the stronger sex,” to which Dad replied, “Let’s see how stronger sexed you are.” Their bed was illuminated by the light of the full moon. Mom pulled her nightgown up over her breasts, but didn’t remove it, then pulled her panties off and dropped them on the floor by the bed. She removed a spermicidal lozenge from her nightstand, I heard the foil wrapper as she tore it open, inserted it, Dad immediately climbed on and went at her. No other sounds that night. Mom always had her legs spread, but flat on the bed, and I never saw her put her arms around him. That night, in the moonlight, his thrusting was almost as clear as day. He lasted a few minutes, gave a couple of final hard thrusts, then rolled off and pulled his pajama bottoms back up. Mom grabbed a tissue from her nightstand, cleaned herself, picked up her panties and put them back on. I finished quietly jerking off.

After the night I first mentioned, the night of “Humph ... mmmm”, Dad took a job about two hours drive away. He rented a room in the town and came home on the weekends. About two months into that routine, I was out in the garage after supper, jerking off to a girly magazine of Dad’s he’d hidden out there. I was just getting close to cumming when I heard footsteps on the breezeway that connected the kitchen to the garage. Fuck! Mom was coming out. I stuck my hard dick back into my pants with one hand while I closed the box that held the magazines with the other. I was just pulling my hand out of my pants when the door opened. Mom’s expression said she had a pretty good idea of the evil I was doing.

“What are you up to,” she asked in that tone that said she already knew.

“Just looking around. There’s nothing good on TV tonight,” I lamely answered. There could be some truth to that. The garage was huge, a double two-car size with plenty of room around each, if there were ever any cars in it. It was used as dad’s workshop and was filled with tools, supplies, and other “manly” things that fascinated me. Even girly mags.

“Well, come back in. It’s almost bedtime,” still in that disapproving tone.

Fuck! My dick was still rock-hard. Nothing to do about it but do as I was told. She stared directly at my crotch as I climbed the three concrete steps to the breezeway door, then turned and walked ahead of me into the house. That wasn’t the first time she’d gazed at my crotch, but it was the first time she’d done so when I was hard. At least she hadn’t opened the door as I shot my load. Damn, that thought excited me a bit.

I stopped at the heater in the den, even though it was summer, and she continued into her bedroom. I watched as she stood in her typical place with her back to the door and changed into lightweight pajamas. As usual, in the undressing process, she turned her body to face the door, but kept her head turned away as if she was unaware of showing herself. That might have been when I first realized that she might be doing that on purpose.