You wander home, your mind in a daze. You've got a date! Tonight at eight. Okay, so she was a little too old for you, but this body certainly didn't seem to care. In fact it is positively trembling at the memory of her adult bosom pouring out of that sports bra. As a high school student, you've rarely seen a woman with those sorts of curves, let alone spoken to one.
Just to think, by the end of the day, you could be holding that body in your arms. Or even-
So lost in your thoughts, you walk all the way home without a thought for your "son" or, indeed, your "wife". You push open the front door to find yourself almost face-to-face with your mother, a basket of dirty laundry in her arms. She looks you up and down. Having pushed your father's body further than it should have gone, you're a sweaty mess, and she tuts.
"Shirt. Off." Your eyes widen in alarm as her nimble fingers reach out, sliding down across your chest, and into the waistband of your jogging trousers, tugging free the hem of your exercise vest. She pulls it up over your head and tosses it into the laundry hamper, glancing back at your naked, burly torso as she heads for the kitchen. "No John?" she asks coyly.
Somewhere you find your voice. "He's...uh, picking up girls..."
"Oh?" she says with a level of surprise that annoys you as she stuffs handfuls of clothing into the washer. Why does everybody assume you're terrible with girls? You almost want to tell her about the woman you've successfully arranged to meet tonight. "If you must know..."
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