Lubrican Robert

A Model Mother

Chapter One

I don’t know if boys in general are dense as they grow up, but I was. I’m aware that’s a pretty sweeping comment, but let me explain and perhaps you’ll understand where I’m coming from and judge me less harshly.

What I’m actually referring to is a boy’s reflection on his parents. In my case, it was just one parent, my mother. She was a single mother, and that’s all I ever knew her as. I had no idea who my father was, only that she’d never married him and deflected any questions or conversation concerning him. They say that familiarity breeds contempt. I think that’s a little harsh, personally, but familiarity does cause one to view the other person in a bubble. When you’re a kid, your mom is just … your mom. Other kids' moms might seem interesting, or exotic, or even hot, but you see your own mother so much that she just fades into the background.

My mom was a real estate agent. I guess she’d been a waitress when I was little, but she had her realtor’s license by the time I was five or six. We were poor, but I didn’t know the difference. She always found a way to put a roof over our heads and food on the table. It took until I was twelve or thirteen before I did the math and figured out that she’d had me when she was fifteen. It sounds crazy now, but back then, the fifteen-year-olds I knew seemed like grownups to me, so I didn’t think a lot about it. Nor did I think about how hard it must have been for her to be pregnant and not even old enough to have a driver’s license, yet.

Anyway, she did okay as a realtor. The income wasn’t steady, which is why, sometimes, things got tight, financially speaking. Markets like that fluctuate, so you have to plan for the long haul. I knew she’d had second jobs, now and then, as I grew up, but I hadn’t paid any attention to that, either. When she wasn’t there, that gave me time to read comic books, and play on my Atari, that she’d gotten at the Good Will store. Like I said, I was a little dense. Or maybe just self-absorbed.

What I did pay attention to was my mother’s opinion on how a man (or boy) should treat a member of the opposite gender. She was death on that. It was her firm opinion that If a man didn’t respect women, and their wishes, then he was lower than whale shit. She made it quite clear, even before I entered puberty, that I was to be a gentleman. I was to listen to what a woman said, and always, always, always respect her.

I was allowed to date when I turned sixteen. I did some of that, but I was pretty shy. I had to know a girl pretty well before I’d ask her out. It might sound counter-intuitive, but by the time I knew a girl that well, we were friends, and had usually figured out dating each other wouldn’t be as fulfilling as just staying friends. I felt the same urges other guys did, but the girls I felt them about were mostly either out of my league or already somebody’s girlfriend. So I fell into the category of group dating, for the most part. A bunch of us who liked each other went out and did things together. I’d recommend it to others, except that my sexual development took a somewhat odd path.

But that comes later. I managed to get by with usually quick, somewhat violent masturbatory sessions. The objects of my passion at such times were photographs of women who didn’t mind if I saw them naked. That was obvious because they had posed for such pictures and let somebody put them in a magazine. I could have whatever fantasy I wanted about them without feeling like I was objectifying them. Men objectifying women was one of my mom’s hot-button issues.

Mom managed to save up enough money for me to at least start college. I wanted to be a fire fighter, and it just so happened that the vo-tech school in our town offered an associates fire science degree, so I was able to save some money by living at home. The rest of the guys in my class were away from home for the first time, horny out of their minds, and finally able to get drunk without a parent finding out, so they were a pretty wild bunch. I’m sure that if I’d lived in the dorm with them, the peer pressure would have caused me to do some of the same stupid things they did, but I was able to get away at night. It helped my study habits, too, which I had failed to build up in high school. It was close enough that I could ride my bike (helpful in the physical fitness arena, which was a big deal in the program) or walk if I had to.

On the other hand, living at home meant I couldn’t bring a girl over and despoil her, like my friends bragged they did. Alas, I stayed a virgin. Of course I never told them that.

And that brings me to what started the train of my normal, ordinary, dense life to … well … derail. Or threaten to derail.

In my fourth (last) semester I had to take a humanities class as an elective, to satisfy a fine arts requirement. I chose Art 101 because I figured it would be easy credit. I mean art is subjective, right? So you can’t screw it up, right? If my apples and bananas in a still life end up looking like coals and sticks, then I can just spin it and say it’s what I intended, right?

It turned out I liked art. An example of my denseness is that I spent years with my nose stuck in a comic book and didn’t translate that into, "I like art." I’d never spent any time drawing, but I should have, because I had a talent for it. My teacher even thought so. After class one time she took me aside and asked if I might be interested in working with one of the college art partners. I didn’t know what a college art partner was. It turns out that a local art gallery offered training above and beyond what the vo-tech could offer. They called it "investing in art’s future." I would later learn that the theory is a little like American Idol, or The Voice, where tens of thousands of people are screened who might never come to the attention of a music producer, but who have raw talent. Not many will make the grade, but the few who do make a lot of money for the people putting on the show. What these art partners did was try to find talent that could make them money.

Anyway, it was part of what was called Art Lab. The owner of the local gallery came in as a guest instructor and ran it in a studio at the college. It was only on Friday nights, which was good, because that wouldn’t interfere with my fire science classes. It was three hours long, so students could spend serious uninterrupted time on major projects. Obviously, since it was on Friday night, only the serious people attended. If you were a pussy hound, or an alcoholic-in-the-making, you avoided things like art lab. I had taken out a few girls since starting college, but only those I already knew from high school. I didn’t really have a lot of self confidence, or at least enough to approach the vivacious, independent girls I saw on campus. Actually, that was one reason I took art as an elective. I figured maybe girls who were into art might be into quiet, polite guys … like me. My point is that I didn’t think losing Friday nights to art lab would cut into my social life. It was also a good excuse to turn down a party where, typically, alcohol would flow like a stream, leading to me trying to sneak into the house without my mother knowing I’d been drinking.

"So what do they do there?" I asked.

"They do different things each semester," she said. "I believe they’re doing a figure study this semester."

"I guess I could try," I said. "Isn’t drawing figures hard?"

"It is for some people, but as you already know, it’s formulaic. We’ve already gone over the basics of that in class. Mrs. Gaskill will be providing advanced instruction. I think you could do it."

"Okay, then," I said. "Where do I go and what should I bring?"

* * *

I arrived at the studio the next Friday night. It was in the basement of Ferrel Hall, a big two-story building, and you had to go down a long, empty hallway to get there. It was a little spooky because it was so quiet. And some the fluorescent lights on the ceiling flickered too. I only saw one other person in the hallway. I would find out that the veterans got there early, because Mrs. Gaskill provided donuts and coffee. She said you should never paint hungry. I found out you should never try to paint with sticky fingers from eating donuts, either, but that’s another story.

If I had any doubts, they disappeared when I got my first look at Maureen Gaskill, who owned the Gaskill gallery in town. I’d seen it before. It had a giant stylized G as a logo. You couldn’t really tell it was an art gallery from the outside, but of course that mysterious, huge "G" made everybody ask what it was.

Mrs. Gaskill was hot as a pistol. She exuded a raw, but controlled sexuality that made me want to be around her, even though I knew she was married and there was no possibility in the universe that I had any chance with her. She was kind of a real, live Playboy bunny sort, who was good for uncounted fantasies, but that was all. She examined me when I came in, but I knew better than to stare at her. My mother had taught me better than that. She was practically obsessed about me being a gentleman and treating women with respect.

The atmosphere was different than the regular classroom. There were maybe fifteen other students there, and easels set up all over the room, arranged in a semi-circle around a raised dais that had a love seat on it, upholstered in what looked like red velvet. The easels all had blank canvases on them. There were some half-finished works propped against the legs of a couple of them, and some more leaning against the wall. Apparently last semester’s project was drawing a machine of some sort. It looked like maybe an espresso machine, tall and shiny, with lots of other stuff around it, like maybe you’d see in a coffee shop. Also, apparently, lots of people hadn’t finished the project before breaking for the holidays.

I was a newbie, but nobody treated me like it. Maybe we were all newbies. I didn’t know. Everybody seemed friendly and relaxed, which puzzled me a little, because I was worried that people would look at my work and laugh, or something like that. Then again, maybe they were all worried I’d laugh at their work. It turns out artists, at least beginning artists, aren’t judgmental at all. Or maybe they’re just polite about it. If they think something’s awful, they just don’t comment on it.

When it was time to start, Mrs. Gaskill called for silence. She folded her arms under her breasts. I knew better than to stare at them, too. That didn’t mean however, that I wasn’t interested.

"We’re doing a figure study this semester. Our model will be posing nude, to give us an opportunity to work on skin tone, shading, and so on. You do not have to try for realism, but let’s not do any cartoons, okay? It’s your choice of media, but don’t get too adventurous. If you’re not already experienced with paint, then stick to pencil or charcoal, something a little more forgiving and easier to handle. This is going to be special, this semester. I’ll tell you more about that, later."

I knew from regular class that most art is done in stages. In the case of doing bodies, whether human or other animals, the first step is getting the basics down while looking at the model; basic pose, form, proportions, and all that. That is done by making circles, ovals, squares and such like. Then you turn those shapes into body parts, adding details. After that you can either fill in additional components on your own, or finish the fine detail by looking at the model again. That’s when you do things like create creases in the skin, wrinkles in the clothing, shading, and that sort of thing. I wondered if the model would be male or female, but I didn’t ask. I’d find out soon enough.

So there I was, also relaxed and ready to get my first extended look at a naked body. I really hoped it would be a female body. I was ready for that.

It turned out the model was female.

What I wasn’t ready for, when she came out of the dressing room, dropped her robe, and took up her position on the love seat … was that it would be my mother.

* * *

There are events that you have no control over, which sort of crash into you like a tsunami, and change the face of your life forever. I had never thought of my mother as a sexual being. She didn’t go out on dates, and never had while I was growing up. I hadn’t thought that was odd. None of my friends' moms went out on dates either. I was aware there was a category of woman labeled MILF, but I’d never met one in person (with the possible exception of Maureen Gaskill) and I certainly never thought of my mother as being in that category. I knew she had breasts, because they pushed out her shirts and dresses and all that, but I hadn’t seen them since I got nourishment from them. My mother didn’t prance around the house naked, or semi-naked. Neither did I. And she was my … mom. I know most of you get what I’m trying to say, here, because most of you out there in reader land have never thought of your mother as a sexual being either. Or at least tried not to.

The problem was that, in those few seconds after I realized who the model was, that tsunami washed over me and everything changed. She had my mother’s face, but I was suddenly unable to think of her as being my mother at all. Remember that raw sexuality I mentioned that Mrs. Gaskill has? This model had it too. She wasn’t trying to be sexual. It was just unavoidable. First off, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body. I knew she was thirty-four years old, but she had the body of a twenty-two-year-old gymnast. You couldn’t quite see her ribs, but it was close. Her thighs were firm and full, but not heavy. There was no extra flesh on her upper arms, or neck. That neck looked long and thin, perhaps because her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I’d seen her with a ponytail before, but usually only when she was doing yard work, or something like that. Most of the time her honey-blond hair was down. She kept it long, about at her shoulder blades, because she said it helped her sell houses.

Then there was … the rest of her.

Her breasts didn’t look as big as I would have expected them to, had I ever thought I’d see them like this. I don’t know anything about cup sizes or all that. All I can say is that they were in perfect proportion to the rest of her. They were distinctly round on the bottoms, but the tops sloped gently down until they suddenly tried to defeat gravity. It actually looked like her nipples might be trying to help pull the tips of her breasts upward. Those nipples looked stiff … erect, based on pictures I’d seen of other breasts. They were a sort of maroon hue, set on little circles of the same color. Oddly, I was reminded of a ski jump when I looked at them. I’d seen pictures of saggy breasts. These were definitely not saggy breasts.

Her pussy - I guess vulva is the polite term - was the most shocking of all. It was shaved clean of any trace of pubic hair, and the lips looked like some kind of odd fruit that was split open, with the soft, inner-flesh bulging out through the split. Moms don’t have shaved pussies. They just don’t. Ask any kid if his mother’s pussy is shaved and, after he tries to beat you up, he’ll say, "No, you fucking pervert!" But this model’s pussy was shaved. You understand how it was difficult to perceive her as my mom, right?

Except she obviously was.

All this was easily visible as her position, when she finally settled into it, showed it all off. She lay down on the love seat on her side, with her head supported on one hand, held up by her elbow. An odd cylindrical pillow was under her armpit to take up some of her torso’s weight. She kept her lower leg mostly straight, but bent the knee of her top leg, lifting it to open herself to our view. The foot of that leg rested right behind the knee of the straight one. Her top arm was bent, with her wrist lying on her hip and her fingers dangling downwards, as if pointing at her sex. Her eyes seemed to be looking right at us … me. The look on her face was along the lines of, "Finally! I’ve been waiting so long. Don’t you love me enough to come to me when I really need you?"

That tsunami I mentioned?

It was blood rushing into my penis, which created an incredible, rock-hard erection.

For my own mother.

* * *

"Let’s be professional, now," chided Mrs. Gaskill, as though she knew exactly what was going through my traitorous mind.

"Yeah, right," said one of the only two other males in the room.

"I’d kill to look like that," I heard one girl say.

The model - I just couldn’t think of her as my mother - lay there still as stone, unruffled by the susurration of soft comments. It was as if she knew she was a goddess, and didn’t expect anything else.

"I know this is a provocative pose," Mrs. Gaskill went on, "but your work, this semester, should you choose to, may be submitted to an exhibition of erotic art scheduled at a major gallery in Phoenix, in April. They’re going to reserve space for amateur works, and there will be prizes awarded. The grand prize is an invitation to display future works, which may lead to sales. Need I say more?"

There were murmurs of interest.

"Now, the erotic part should be easy," said Mrs. Gaskill. "Our model will be most helpful with that. I chose her for exactly that quality. It’s counter-intuitive, but what you need to concentrate on, initially, is her face. I picked this model because she has the look we want - on her face, I mean - and it’s critical that you capture that look. You can put any body on her that you wish, but don’t pass up her face.”

"Like I’d change that body," whispered a guy standing next to me.

"Yeah," I replied automatically. There was no way I was going to say, "Dude! That’s my mom!" even though that’s what I was thinking. I remembered from my childhood some movie with that name, but I’d never seen it.

"Don’t fight any passion the model creates in you," said Mrs. Gaskill. "Use it to inform your work. It’s all right to be a little horny. Jennifer understands. I think she’d be offended if she didn’t create those feelings in you. That is her purpose, after all, to imbue passion in the artwork you’re going to create."

I blinked. Mrs. Gaskill was basically saying that Jennifer … my mother … was intending to be sexy … trying to get us all horny - even the women! - and that if she failed in that intent, she’d be disappointed!?

"No problem there," came a soft, feminine voice from off to my left. I looked, but couldn’t identify who’d said it.

This was not my mother. Obviously, my mom had a doppelganger, right here in Flagstaff, who we’d never known about. She had to be a doppelganger, because there was no way in the world that my mother would do this.

It was then that the model’s eyes drifted onto mine. They widened, and she blinked three times. Then she swallowed and opened her lips.

She looked away, though, and didn’t say anything.

In those eyes, though, was the crystal clear message that she recognized me.

Dude! That was my mom!

* * *

"What just happened?" Mrs. Gaskill asked. I glanced at her and she was looking at … the model. "You’re blushing like a newlywed. I thought you were ready for this."

"Sorry," said the contralto voice of my mother. "I was just thinking of something. I’ll settle down and try not to do that again."

"To the contrary, it made you look amazing. It was the frosting on the perfect cake. Whatever it was, think of it as much as you can."

"I can’t think about that for three hours," groaned Mom.

"I understand," said Mrs. Gaskill. She turned away and looked at us. "Let’s get to work. Posing is difficult and tiring. Let’s not make things hard on our model." she barked.

"I’ve got something hard for her," said the guy standing next to me.

"Don’t be a dick," said a girl next to him. "She’s probably somebody’s mother. She might be almost old enough to be your mother."

The guy, who I would later find out was named Greg, didn’t say anything else. He went to an easel and started going through the supplies on a little stand next to it. I did the same, going on autopilot, but I had no idea what I was going to do. That girl (whose name was Susan) was right. The model was somebody’s mother - mine!

I honestly don’t know how I got through those first three hours. I guess I could have left. I probably should have left. But part of me was no different than everybody else in the room. None of them would voluntarily walk away from getting to see that vision of loveliness. Part of it was that the only movement she made was the slight turning of her head, so that at intervals of maybe two or three minutes, she was facing each artist. When she did that, she looked at the artist, as if he or she was the only other person in the room. The connection was palpable.

She didn’t flinch away from looking at me. I’m quite sure it would have taken an expert in body language to see any difference in the way she looked at me and the others. That actually helped me though, when she was looking at me, I found it difficult to stare back into her eyes. I tried to work on her facial features when it was my turn to be under the gun of her blatantly sexual gaze. You’d think I knew my own mother’s face like I knew the back of my hand, but that wasn’t true. I saw things I hadn’t paid attention to before. She had high, pronounced cheekbones, for example, that were a complete surprise to me.

If Mrs. Gaskill hadn’t been there, I’m not sure I’d have gotten started at all. I was just standing there, pencil in hand, staring at … the model … when she came up beside me.

"Start with the head," she said. "Put it about a third of the way left of the edge of the page and get the basic shape and size you want down. Then the torso. Save the limbs for last. Don’t worry about the couch until you like her body. You should already know this."

"Right," I said. We had discussed this in class, with my regular teacher. She probably knew that. I suspected she knew why I was just staring at the naked woman on the dais. I had an instant little fantasy wherein Maureen Gaskill reached to find and grip my iron-hard boner, and then said, "I thought so. You already like her body, don’t you, you naughty boy." That’s as far as it went, though. She’d shocked me into action, so I reached to put pencil to paper. She wandered on.

Mrs. Gaskill served another purpose, then. As I made the circles, ovals, squares, and so on that blocked out the couch, and body on it, I concentrated on thinking about my guest art teacher. It didn’t feel odd, because she could also have posed for Playboy with no problem. I mean I hadn’t seen her nude, but s woman who took the time to look like she did probably had a great body, too, right? And I’d thought erotic things about a dozen Playboy playmates. Not only was she a beautiful woman, she was comfortably used to invading people’s personal spaces as she taught. She’d gotten close enough to me on several occasions that I could both smell her flowery scent, and worry a bit about what she smelled coming from me. She wore a wedding ring, hence my knowledge that some man had already claimed her. That didn’t stop me from coming up with this or that fantasy about how circumstances put us together in intimate ways. They were stupid little fantasies. Like, for instance, I’d had one where I imagined her husband was a Navy SEAL (he couldn’t possibly be less manly than that) who was gone all the time. She loved him, but she had needs, and I reminded her of him. In another I was a UPS guy and I delivered a bunch of art supplies to her house. She answered the door in a loose robe and insisted I stay there while she inventoried the box. Somehow a wardrobe malfunction developed and she saw the naked (pun intended) interest in my eyes and couldn’t resist me.

As I said, they were stupid, juvenile fantasies. My mother would have been horrified by them, because they objectified Maureen Gaskill out the wazoo. But I was only eighteen months from having been a juvenile, so I didn’t feel bad. And thinking of her naked helped me not think of my mother naked. As I stared at my naked mother. This was my first real taste of just how complicated life could get.

Anyway, I did get through it.

At the end of the three hours, the model got up, put her robe back on, and disappeared into a tiny dressing room in one corner of the studio. The rest of us cleaned up and packed up. As members of art lab, we had access to the studio any evening the building was open, and Mrs. Gaskill talked about what we should do between now and next Friday night, but all I could think of was my mom, in that room, putting on panties and a bra and then regular clothes.

I took my time cleaning up. I was still stiff in my pants and my mind was whirling, which may account for the fact that I didn’t see her come out of the dressing room and leave. So I was the last one out when I saw her waiting for me in the darkness, by the front doors of the building. My stressed mind supplied another fantasy, one in which she had stood there smiling and shaking hands, like people do with the pastor at the end of the service on Sunday. The students all told her how beautiful she was, or what a good model she was, and how delighted they were to be able to try to capture her sexuality, and she smiled and thanked them. I had to hand it to her. She looked as unruffled as could be.

"Bobby …" she said, in her deep voice.

"What the fuck, Mom?" I gasped.

"Let’s talk about this at home," she said. "Do you want a ride?"

I’d ridden my bike that day, but I could come back for it later. It was locked up and would be okay in the rack. Tonight, I wanted to go home with her. I probably wouldn’t be safe on the streets anyway. I was way too distracted to pay attention to traffic.

I didn’t look around as we stepped out of the building. I was going on auto pilot, just doing what she suggested I do. I had all these questions, but I didn’t know where to start. Obviously my mother had a secret life I knew nothing about. For years I had read comic books about people with secret identities, and hadn’t known I was living with one in real life! I was staring at her just trying to make myself believe it was really her. At this point I kind of hoped she was a doppelganger, and that somehow this would all come to make sense.

It was because I was staring at her, that I didn’t see three of my classmates coming towards us.

Don, Jerry, and Phil - it wouldn’t add anything to the story to supply their last names - were going to be firemen, like me. They’d obviously been drinking and were in high spirits.

"Are we too late?" yelled Phil, alerting me to their presence. "Did we miss her?"

It turned out Don had a friend who somehow knew that the art lab that semester involved a nude study and that the model was "hot", in his words. So they, being constantly horny, had come to a decision while they were drinking, that they needed to go see this hot, nude model.

Panic seized my chest.

"Is that her?" yelled Don. "Fuck, man, she really is hot!"

"Go away!" I screamed, like a little girl.

Yeah I know. I’m embarrassed to admit it, even now. That’s all I could come up with.

They stumbled on towards us. It was late, so the noise they were making didn’t really draw that much attention, but my panic wasn’t about who would see or hear them. It was about what they might see or hear when they got up to us. The last thing I needed was for these guys to find out that my mother posed naked for strangers. It would make an epic story, perhaps the most epic saga the fire science program had ever seen, and the instructors told some pretty crazy stories about events that had taken place over the years.

"Are these some of your friends?" asked my mother, her voice as normal as the day is long.

It was like the train wreck the engineer sees coming, but can’t do anything about. We just stood there, and they kept coming. I felt my mother’s hand on my elbow as Jerry surged ahead of the pack and lumbered up to stand, weaving slightly, in front of us.

"Dude!" he sighed, leaning forward slightly to peer at my mother. "She’s fuckin' gorgeous!"

"Thank you," said my mother. I could hear it in her voice. She was about to laugh! How could she laugh at a time like this? This was the end of my life, for Pete’s sake! I’d have to leave school. I’d have to go somewhere else, choose another profession. This story would end up bouncing around the entire industry!

Don and Phil caught up. Phil was the least drunk, apparently.

"Hey. Do you know her?" he asked. "Ricky told me the art class was painting some nude chick this year. Is this her?"

I understood exactly where that came from. She and I were the only other two people within a hundred yards and she had her hand through the crook in my arm.

"I … ah …" That’s it. That’s all that came from my throat.

"We’re old friends," said my mother.

My head turned of its own volition and I stared at her.

"When I was fifteen and he was a baby, I took care of him," she added.

"You were his fucking babysitter?" blurted Don.

"Something like that," she said, smoothly. "He was such a cute baby. I couldn’t help but fall in love with him, back then. And now he’s all grown up!"

"This is fucking awesome!" groaned Jerry.

So you got to see him naked, back then," observed Phil, "and now he gets to see you naked." He grinned as if he’d said the most profound thing in centuries.

"Not entirely naked," said my mother. "I was wearing lipstick."

My head swiveled all by itself again. She was smiling, like all this was some cute little game!

"Shit, man," sighed Jerry. "I’d give my right nut to be able to see my babysitter naked."

It suddenly occurred to me that my friends had foul mouths, and were apparently incapable of carrying on a normal, polite conversation.

"Watch your fucking mouth!" I blurted. I was suddenly angry. Somehow, things had flipped. I’d been worried about what they would think when they found out about my mother. Now I was suddenly ashamed of what my mother was finding out about my friends.

"It’s been delightful meeting you gentlemen," said Mom. "But Bobby and I have a lot of catching up to do, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal him away."

"She’s going to steal him away," sighed Don.

"She prolly needs to change his diaper!" yelled Jerry, gleefully.

"I have to warn you," said Phil, "His dick probably isn’t much bigger than the last time you saw it." He laughed and then grinned like an idiot. That’s because he was an idiot!

"We’ll see," said Mom, as if he wasn’t an idiot. "Are you boys going to be firemen, too?"

"Fuck yeah, we are," bragged Don.

"Well, then, you three take good care of him. He means a lot to me. I’d be devastated if he got hurt."

"She’d be devastated," sighed Don.

"We could come with you," said Phil, who seemed to sober up for an instant. "I’d love to hear stories about him as a baby."

"No, no," said my mother, squeezing my arm. "I want him all to myself."

"She wants him all to herself," sighed Don. "Fuck me to tears."

I was about to yell at them again when she said, just as cool as you please, "I don’t think so. In my experience, drunk men don’t make very good lovers."

She tugged my arm and led me towards the parking lot.

"You boys be good, now," she said, over her shoulder.

In our EMT training, we learned that some of the symptoms of shock are; rapid, shallow breathing, dizziness, weakness, anxiety, staring eyes, sweating and confusion. I had all those symptoms as my mother put me in her car and started it up. I didn’t need medical treatment, though. I just needed time.

She drove for what seemed like twenty minutes before she said anything. I’m sure it wasn’t that long. It’s only a ten minute ride to our house from campus. Then again, we didn’t go straight home. She stopped at a liquor store on the way.

"You stay here. I’ll be right back," she said.

Yes, that’s the first thing she said after we left the parking lot. There was no explanation, no motherly expression about how things would be fine and for me not to worry. Instead, the first thing she said to me was to tell me to stay in the car.

I finally had a chance to gather some thoughts. My heart rate slowed and colors looked more clear. She was back in almost no time, with the ubiquitous long, tall, brown paper bag clutched in her hand. She put it in the trunk for some reason and then got into the car. She didn’t start it, but turned sideways to face me.

"I’m sorry," she said. "I didn’t think you’d find out."

"How could I not find out?" I asked.

"You didn’t tell me you were taking art," she pointed out. "You didn’t tell me anything about what classes you’re in."

"I guess not," I admitted.

"I know boys pull away from their mothers," she said. "It’s still painful."

"I’m not trying to pull away from you," I said.

"Really? After tonight you must hate me."

"Mom, I couldn’t possibly hate you," I said. Worry stabbed into me. My mom was the only person in the world who I really trusted. She’d taken care of me through thick and thin and I knew it hadn’t been easy. She’d sacrificed unimaginably for me and I loved her more than anybody else on Earth.

"Not even after tonight?"

"I was just shocked, that’s all," I said. "I’m still trying to understand."

She started the car and backed out. She didn’t explain anything.

"Seat belt," I reminded her, after the dinging of the dashboard didn’t seem to register.

She got her seat belt fastened and stared straight ahead. Home was only a few minutes away and there was still a strained silence as we got out of the car and went in. She pulled a bottle of sour mash whiskey from the bag and opened it. She took a hit straight from the bottle and I heard her gulp.

This was new. I’d seen my mom have a cocktail now and then. Usually she drank screwdrivers, and then only one, while she watched NCIS or something.

"Can I have some of that?" I asked.

"No," she said, automatically. "You’re too young."

"But not too young to see you naked, showing off everything you have," I said.

She sat down in her recliner and took another hit from the bottle. She was drinking way too much and way too fast.

"You must think I’m a slut," she said.

I almost laughed. Almost. The last person I’d think of as a slut was my mother. As far as I knew, she’d never been on a date in her life. She never brought men home, and never stayed out overnight, unless she was at some real estate convention. Even then she called me every night. If she was slutting it up in some hotel, she wouldn’t be calling her son while she did it, right?

"You’re not a slut," I said.

"I was in high school," she said. "That’s why I ended up pregnant with you."

She tipped the bottle up again.

"Mom," I said, gently, "give me the bottle. I’m not going to drink any. You’re just going too fast. You’ll get sick."

"I just wanted to make some mad money," she moaned. "I didn’t think it would hurt anything. I almost chickened out, but Maureen said it would be fine."

"You know Mrs. Gaskill?" I asked, taking the bottle from her fingers. About a third of it was gone. Turns out my mother can knock them back with the best of them!

"We’re in Pilates together," she said.

I knew my mom belonged to a gym. She’d gotten a deal because she sold the owner a house. I knew she went religiously, and I’d known it kept her in shape. Now I knew just how much shape it kept her in.

"How about that?" I said.

"So you don’t hate me?"

I got down on my knees in front of her chair.

"Mom, I love you. I’ll always love you. Stop worrying about that."

She scooted forward and I got a somewhat awkward hug.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to me," she said. And suddenly she was crying.

If you want to destroy a big, tough fireman, just hug him and cry. We turn into bunny rabbits. Or something. Something soft and weak.

"He was such a bastard," she cried into my neck, "but he gave me you."

I realized she was talking about my father. This was something else new. She never talked about my father. I’d asked her about him several times, and each and every time she replied, "I don’t think about him, and I don’t talk about him. He will never be in your life."

"What about my father?" I asked, thinking she might be off guard enough to let some kind of information spill.

What I got was a gentle snore in my ear.

* * *

I had enough experience with alcohol (unknown to my mother, of course) to realize that a third of a fifth of whiskey on a basically empty stomach is a recipe for … well, for passing out.

She was breathing okay, so I practiced my fireman’s carry and slung her over my shoulder. I carried her up to her bedroom, aware of her body pressing against mine. Those perfect breasts I had stared at for hours that night were touching my back. Her perfect ass (I hadn’t actually seen that, but I was sure it was as perfect as the rest of her) was cupped in my hand. I gently laid her on her bed and those perfect legs landed more or less straight, feet apart, forming a natural inverted Vee that led to the good parts.

She’d let her hair down and now it was covering her face. I brushed it aside, to make her more comfortable, and I still think today that’s what gave me the idea to remove her clothes. I didn’t do it to ogle her. At least not exactly. I really did think she’d be more comfortable without them on. Somewhere along the line, though, I guess I got a little creepy. After I got her blouse off, which wasn’t too hard because she was as limp as a noodle, I worked at getting her jeans off. They were a lot tighter and in the process of jerking and tugging them, they pulled her panties down with them. Those panties were powder blue and they were bikini style. If you’d have asked me what kind of panties my mother wore, assuming I didn’t paste you one for asking, I’d have probably said they were granny panties or something. Seeing these wispy, sexy things, though, didn’t seem at all odd anymore. Not after seeing what they covered.

That left her in only her bra. Getting things off of her had been difficult enough that I didn’t want to try to put PJs on her. I stood there, thinking, trying to imagine her waking up and discovering she was wearing only her bra. That would be distinctly creepy, at least to me. I picked up the panties, thinking about putting them back on her. Then it occurred to me that I’d seen her naked already. Nobody would be more aware of that than her. So I just took her bra off and tucked her in.

I confess I stared at her for a while before I covered her up. That’s the creepy part.

Or maybe the creepy part is that I got another boner while I did it.

At least I went online and stared at some anonymous porn while I jerked off to get rid of the erection.

Chapter Two

I didn’t set my alarm because the next morning was a Saturday. When I woke up I smelled bacon. Mom liked to make pancakes, bacon and eggs on Saturdays. It was kind of a tradition. The fact that I smelled that made me feel better, because that meant my mother was not cowering in bed and was at least trying to act normal.

I think the normalcy of that bacon scent is why I did what was normal for me, too. That was to bounce out of bed and, wearing the boxers I already had on, went to get breakfast.

Mom was there, wearing her Oriental kimono robe, which was made of silk and had pictures of cranes on it. Birds, not machines. I’d seen it a hundred times, but this time I realized how short it was, and how well it showed her legs off.

"Where did you get that robe?" I asked, without thinking.

"I sold a woman a house and she gave it to me as a gift," she said. "Good morning."

"Hi," I said, suddenly awkward.

"Thank you for taking care of me last night," she said.

"No problem."

"I’m sorry you had to see me like that."

I decided to try to lighten the mood.

"You’re not that hard on the eyes, for an old lady," I said.

She blinked, the spatula dangling from one hand.

"I meant the drinking part," she said.

"Oh." It was awkward again.

She turned back around and finished cooking the bacon. The pancakes were already stacked up, with the eggs next to them.

We ate for a while before either of us spoke again. She stared at me a lot. She kept looking at my shoulders and chest, for some reason. She was the one who broke the silence.

"There is no room in our budget for frivolous things," she said. "Once in a while though, you just need to go buy something … frivolous. The occasional luxury is your reward for doing all the hard stuff. That’s why I let Maureen talk me into posing."

I knew that income in the real estate industry could be spotty. If you didn’t sell, you didn’t earn. The market wasn’t something the agents could control, either. So in a hot market, the smart agent set something aside for the lean months that could come without warning. And, in the lean months, you may have to moonlight sometimes.

"You’re a grown woman," I said. "There’s nothing wrong with what you did."

"But my baby saw me like that," she said.

"I’m not a baby anymore, Mom," I complained.

"No … you’re not," she said, looking at my chest again. "When did you grow up into a big, strong man?"

"When did you turn into a smoking hot woman?" I asked, again, not thinking before I spoke.

"I’m not … that," she said.

"Were you not paying attention when my three ignorant friends accosted us last night?" I asked.

"Them?" she almost sneered. "Typical males. They’d want to jump anything with breasts."

"True," I admitted. "I think you overwhelmed them a little bit."

"Men are so disgusting," she growled.

"That’s a little harsh," I said.

"No it’s not." She put her fork down and stared at me. "Maybe it’s time."

"Time for what?" I asked.

"I’ve never talked about your father," she said.

Now I put my fork down. I also leaned forward.

"I wanted to wait for the right time," she said. She frowned. "But there never seemed to be a right time. Maybe I should just get it over with."

"Yes," I agreed. I bit my lip. I shouldn’t have said anything. She was talking and I should just let her do that without interruption.

"When I finally got to high school," she started, "I was so happy. I wanted to be a cheerleader. It’s all I could think about. I had practiced for years, and I made the varsity squad, just like I had dreamed of. A lot of other girls were jealous of me, but all that did was make me proud. It never occurred to me that some of those girls would be so spiteful they might set me up for failure."

I stayed silent. So far, this didn’t seem to have anything to do with my father, but she was still talking.

"There was a party," she said. "The quarterback was paying attention to me. He was a senior, and for him to want to dance and talk with a lowly freshman made my head whirl. I didn’t intend to drink any alcohol but some girls put Everclear in some fruit juice and I didn’t know it."

I had experience with Everclear. Every college kid does. It’s a cheap drunk when you mix it with fruit juice, or Kool-Aid or whatever. I’ve heard it called jungle juice, among other things. It’s potent, not only because it’s a hundred and ninety proof, but also because you can’t taste it and you therefore drink it too fast.

"They got me in a bedroom with the quarterback and helped him take my clothes off. I kept wanting to tell them no, but I couldn’t. And then he said he loved me and he had sex with me. After that he told people we were going together. He wanted to have sex … a lot. I didn’t know anything. My parents never talked to me about sex. I thought you had to want to have a baby for that to happen. You’ve heard people say they’re trying to have a baby, right?"

I nodded, still unwilling to stop this unexpected torrent of information.

"When I got pregnant, he walked away. His parents were rich, and they threatened to sue my parents for defamation if I kept insisting their son was the father. He denied it all, of course. He had the balls to claim he was still a virgin."

"Fuck," I muttered. I didn’t mean to speak. It just leaked out.

"My parents home schooled me after that. So I had you, and moved on and never looked back," she said.

"I’m sorry you had to go through that," I said.

She looked at me and blinked a few times, as if she had just realized how much she’d told me.

"Is that why you’ve never dated?" I guessed. She leaned back in her chair.

"Men hit on me all the time, Bobby. They always have. And they all just want one thing, the same thing your father wanted. All they want is sex. They don’t care about what the woman wants. They don’t care about how what they do can affect a woman for the rest of her life, even destroy her life."

"Maybe not all men," I said, gently.

"You’re not like that, are you Bobby? Please tell me you don’t love a girl and then leave her."

"Mom, I’m still a virgin," I said. Nobody could have been more shocked than I was at that admission. Especially since it was to my own mother!

She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table, and cupped her face in her hands.

"What have I done?" she moaned.

"Nothing!" I said, maybe too loudly. "You didn’t do anything wrong, Mom."

"I ruined your life," she moaned.

"How?" I asked. "By posing nude for an art class? That didn’t ruin my life. If anything, those guys you met last night will have made me a legend by now."

"What?" Her head came up.

"I guarantee you they’ve spread it around about what a hot babysitter I had, and how I still know her. Even better, now I get to see her naked!" I grinned.

"This isn’t funny," she said.

"I know," I said, getting serious again. "But it also hasn’t ruined my life. I still love you. I just get to see more of you than the average son does."

"It sounds like you’re going to keep coming to class," she said.

"Of course I am," I said.

"Even though it’s … me?"

"It’s not you," I said. "It’s my hot babysitter … remember?"

She leaned back again and stared at me.

"The average kid doesn’t put his drunk babysitter to bed," she said.

"Well … I owed you," I said.

"I was naked when I woke up this morning," she pointed out.

"I thought you’d sleep more comfortably that way," I said.

"And you’d already seen me without a stitch on."

"True."

"And it wasn’t … weird?"

"It was definitely weird," I said. "But not because of anything you did."

She just stared at me.

"You are a man, now," she said.

"I try," I joked.

"Are you really still a virgin?"

That caught me off guard.

"Are you really different than … other men?"

"Mom," I said, reaching across the table for her hand. "You got a raw deal. There’s no doubt about that. And a lot of guys are dickheads. But not all of them. There are plenty of good guys out there. I’m one of them because my mother taught me to be. Lots of other moms taught their sons to be good guys, too."

"You’re sweet," she said.

"I’m who you made me," I countered.

"And you really don’t mind if I continue to pose?"

Now I leaned back. She’d been honest with me. I owed her at least the same.

"Actually … no. I don’t mind."

"Why?"

I owed her this honesty, but that didn’t mean it was easy to give it.

"I guess some part of me - a guy part - appreciates how you look. I wasn’t kidding when I said you were smoking hot. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. It’s just true. At least I think so."

"I see," she said.

"Are you disappointed?" I asked.

"I don’t know," she said. "I have to think about that. I have to think about why I decided to pose that way, too."

"Why?"

"I know what men think when they look at me dressed. I also know that taking my clothes off invites a certain amount of objectification, and I hate that. And yet, I did it. You said there are at least some men out there who don’t think only about sex. And then you turn around and say you like looking at me … like that. That suggests things, Bobby."

"I said there are good guys out there, Mom. I didn’t say they never think about sex. They just control themselves. They do care how the woman feels."

"So you thought about … think about it, too," she said.

"Of course. I’m normal."

"Bobby, I don’t think you’re supposed to think about your mother that way."

"You’re right," I said. "But then again, I’m not the first son to do that."

"What?"

So I told her about what we’d studied in my English Literature class, the previous semester. We’d gone over Sophocles' Theban plays, in which Oedipus accidentally fulfilled a prophecy that he would end up killing his father and marrying his mother. I had to explain the whole story to her, but ended up by saying that if all this had been written about thousands of years ago, then the concept of a son getting turned on by his mother wasn’t anything new. I also explained about how Sigmund Freud thought it was actually common.

"I wish I could have gone to college," she said, when I wound down. "You get to learn the most fascinating things."

"That’s easy to say when you’re not the one being tested on all that material," I said.

"So," she said, staring at my chest again, "if a mother thought her son was handsome and even … sexy … that wouldn’t be the end of the world?"

Her meaning was clear. I felt zings in my testicles.

"I guess not," I said, weakly.

"Good," she said. "I feel better. Now. I have a house to show at eleven. I’d better get ready to go."

And just like that, the earthquake that had shaken my world for the last twelve or so hours, settled down.

I never thought about the fact that most earthquakes usually have aftershocks.

* * *

If this were a made-up story on a porn site, then the next chapter would be where I stumbled into the bathroom while my mother was taking a shower, or something like that, and things went crazy and I had torrid sex with her, or she fucked me relentlessly or whatever. But this isn’t that kind of story.

Everything was just as normal as pie for the next week, except that I kept trying to get more out of her about my dad. And my friends kept trying to get more out of me about my old babysitter. Like where she lived, and if I was banging her. If you’re a guy, then you know how guys are. If you’re a girl, trust me, you don’t want to know. I was able to ignore that part, but I couldn’t get out of my head the image of a high school senior climbing on top of a helpless cheerleader and basically raping her.

It was two days later when, at breakfast again, I asked, "So, do you know where he is?"

"Who?"she asked.

"The quarterback," I said. I just couldn’t call him "my father."

"You don’t want to meet him, Bobby," she said.

"Yes I do. I want to kick his cowardly ass," I said.

"You want nothing to do with him," said Mom. "That has served me very well for nineteen years. If you never set eyes on him you’ll be the better for it."

"I still want to clean his clock," I growled.

"And end up in jail for assault?"

"I’ll wear a mask," I said.

"Bobby, baby, I love you so much. You’re the only thing good that ever came from that man. So he’s a prick. So what? We didn’t need him back then and we don’t need him now. Don’t let him be a disappointment in your life.”

"Okay," I groaned. "I’ll try to be less angry about it. Besides. He did me a favor."

"What favor?" she asked.

"If he hadn’t gotten you pregnant, I wouldn’t be here. And if I wasn’t here, I would never have gotten to see my smoking hot mother posing on a podium." I grinned.

"I’m not smoking hot, Bobby," she said.

"Oh yes you are," I said. "Like I sakd,talk to my friends. They won’t stop talking about you. By the way, thanks for saving me with that babysitter stuff."

"It was true," she said. "I did take care of you when I was fifteen."

"I read somewhere that the best undercover cops build their false identity on a fragment of truth," I said. "Maybe you should have been a cop."

"I don’t think so. You said they talk about me. What do they say?"

"You don’t want to know," I said.

"If I didn’t want to know I wouldn’t have asked," she said, a frosty tone entering her voice.

I decided to shock her.

"Well, among other things, they want to know if I’m banging you."

She blinked.

"Maybe I don’t want to know," she said.

"I told you so," I replied.

"Yes, you did," she said. "But I still want to know. Is that all?"

I was surprised, but I answered her.

"They asked me if I know where you live, and if you’re married or not. Stuff like that."

"What did you tell them?"

"Well, I didn’t tell them I was banging you, if that’s what you’re worried about," I said.

"Of course not," she said. "But what did you tell them?"

"Well Don and Phil - you met them the other night - wanted to know if I could hook them up with you."

"You’re kidding. They’re just boys!"

"That’s what I told them. I told them you liked actual men, instead of wet-behind-the-ears punks."

"And what did they say to that?"

"Phil claims he has a huge dick, that makes a women forget about all other men. Stuff like that. It’s juvenile bullshit. Those guys are a lot more like that stereotype of men you had."

"Have," she corrected me. "So far I haven’t met any of these good guys you say are out there." She frowned. "Except for you," she amended.

"Well, they’re harmless. They’d spike your drink with Everclear, too, but only to get you in the mood. They wouldn’t force you. But you’ll never go to a party they’re at, so you’re safe."

"So, does this Phil person really have a big … penis?"

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I couldn’t believe she’d asked that.

"It’s not for me," she said. "Maureen says she’s looking for a boy toy … somebody uncomplicated, who won’t want any entanglements."

"You’re shitting me!" I gasped.

"You’re all grown up, now," she said, sounding injured. "Don’t be shocked."

"Isn’t she married?" I asked.

"No. She divorced her ex for cheating on her, but she still wears the ring to ward off unwanted advances. I’m not the only woman who thinks most men are pigs, Bobby. She just wants somebody to have fun with. Don’t ask me why."

"I’m available," I said. It just slipped out.

"No you are not!" she barked.

I wanted to argue about that, but I knew better. My mother and I had survived against the odds. We’d been successful because we worked together, but along the way I learned to recognize that voice she sometimes used that announced she would brook no argument.

"To answer your completely unexpected question … I don’t know if Phil has a big one or not. I don’t make a habit of checking out my friends' dicks," I said.

"Which one was he?" she asked.

"I do not believe you’re vetting my friends, to pick out a boy toy for your friend," I said.

"That’s not what I’m doing at all," she said. "I’m just gathering information that may be useful some day."

I thought back.

"He’s the one who said it was only fitting that, since you got to see me naked way back then, I got to see you naked now. He also said my penis probably isn’t much bigger than it was the last time you saw it."

"Ah, yes," said Mom. "I remember. He wasn’t quite so far gone as the others."

"Yeah," I said.

"Was he right?"

"About what?"

"About how big your penis is."

I looked at her but she wasn’t smiling. Still, it had to be a joke. I wondered how many nineteen-year-old boys in the world had just been asked by their mothers how big their dicks were. It had to be a vanishingly small number.

"I’m not going to answer that," I said, with as much dignity as I could.

"Good for you," she said.

"Why would you ask that?" I asked.

"Because they’re your friends, your peers. You hang around with them, right? So they affect you … how you act. They were jerks. I don’t want my son to be a jerk, too."

"They were just blowing off steam," I said. "Normally they’re good guys."

"I’m sure Rodney thought he was just blowing off steam when he raped me," she said, her voice even.

Now I knew my biological father’s name was Rodney.

* * *

The week went on. I went to classes and it was almost possible to forget that woman, on that love seat, with that come-hither look on her face. It began to seem like a dream.

Then it was Friday morning again and there was my mother, looking beautiful in her baby-blue jacket, getting ready to go sell somebody a house. She finished her bowl of Special K as I came in. I got a cursory kiss on the cheek and she said, "I have to go. See you tonight?"

Now those are very normal words, in a very normal situation. They’re words that are said in millions of kitchens every morning, and they are literal in their context and meaning. But for me, they were different. The feelings those simple words created in me were complex. I would see her that night - all of her. That alone produced a reaction akin to what many children feel on the night before Christmas. But the way she said it was what really got to me. It was as if those three words were a foreign language which, when translated into my own, meant, "I want you to see me tonight, when I’m naked, and vulnerable, because while I’m being paid to do this, I’m really only there to pose for you."

I know. Most people would say all she meant was what those other millions of people meant, but I sensed all that other stuff. Maybe it was the way she held my gaze as she said it. Maybe it was the set of her body. I read somewhere that 70% of communication is done through body language, rather than the verbal part.

"You couldn’t keep me away with Donald Trump’s border fence," I said.

"Good," she said.

I have to admit I had difficulty concentrating on my classes that day.

* * *

When I got to the lab, everything seemed exactly like it had the week before. Nobody treated me any differently. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was very ordinary. Still, as I stood at my easel, waiting for my mother to come out and get naked, I felt a tiny little secret thrill that I knew the model … lived with the model. I knew she created feelings in the others that were very strong and sexual, but all they could do was look at her. And preserve her image on canvas.

But I’d sleep in the same house as her that night.

Mrs. Gaskill didn’t act any different either. She was just as good looking as last time, though tonight, like my mother, she had her hair in a ponytail. She was wearing a loose sweatshirt, but it did nothing to diminish her aura of sensuality. I wondered about the man who had cheated on (and lost) this woman. He had to have been an idiot.

Then my mom was there and she dropped the robe and got into her pose. She looked directly at me, first, but then her eyes drifted away.

As I put lines on paper I thought about how she looked. As I said before, I knew she was thirty-four years old. The quarterback had gotten her pregnant when she was fifteen. She’d had another birthday before I had mine. People don’t think about it this way, but your first birthday is actually the day your mother pushes you out into the world, the day you are actually born. It is literally your birth-day. Most people consider the celebration you have a year later to be your first birthday, but it isn’t. You don’t have more than one actual birth-day. You may celebrate that day for the rest of your life, but you’re not actually "having a birthday."

Sorry. I got off on a tangent. Anyway, my mother was not "cougar" material, technically. A cougar is an experienced older woman who enjoys a relationship with a younger man. My mother was neither experienced, in that sense, nor looking for that kind of relationship. Mrs. Gaskill sounded like a cougar, at least according to my mother. But looking at my mom, reclining there in that totally sexual way, displaying herself in what looked like a clear offering of her body, made my mind go wandering. I’d hook up with Mrs. Gaskill in a heartbeat. I wasn’t experienced, either, really, but then wasn’t that the point? A woman who knows the ropes could teach a guy like me a lot about how to please a woman, and I really wanted to please a woman. My friends just wanted to get their rocks off, but I wanted a woman to look at me like the model on that dais was looking at me. I wanted a woman to crave my attention, to wait impatiently for me to be there, to luxuriate in the feel of my hands on her skin. I wanted a woman to be eager to kiss me when she wasn’t drunk. And, of course, I wanted a woman to welcome me into her inner core, to accept my seed as a treasured gift.

Come to think of it, I might not do all that well with Mrs. Gaskill after all. I wanted commitment. I wanted a life-mate. I wanted a woman who wanted to be the mother of my children.

That led me to the difference between being in school and working. I was learning how to put out fires, save lives. Someday I’d actually do that. Mrs. Gaskill could be like college, teaching me how to be the kind of man who would attract the kind of woman I was looking for.

"Okay, that’s it for tonight," came the voice of the woman I wanted to teach me everything sexual.

I looked at my watch. Where had the night gone? Then I looked at the paper on my easel.

Wow! When had I done all that?

I felt a presence at my shoulder and turned to find Mrs. Gaskill there. Her eyes were on my drawing, but they moved to fix on my own.

"Nice work," she said. "It’s as if you really know the model." She gave me a little crooked grin.

I didn’t dawdle this night. I got cleaned up and went to the exit of the building, expecting my mother to be there. She wasn’t.

I didn’t know what to do. We had come separately, of course, and I could go home the same way. But I wanted to wait for her. I was pacing outside when I heard something and looked at the street. I groaned. The three stooges were coming my way.

Chapter Three

"Dude, where is she?" asked Jerry, when they got close enough.

"Don’t you guys have a life?" I harped. They didn’t seem drunk tonight.

"Yeah, but it’s not as interesting as yours," said Don. He grinned.

"We just wanted to see her," said Phil. "You get to see her whenever you want, right? So share the wealth, man."

"I see her on Friday nights," I caged. "It’s not like I hang out with her."

"Well, we’re going over to Kelsey’s," said Don. "We figured if you were finished here, you might want to go."

Kelsey’s was a bar that a retired fireman had bought, and which sort of catered to the fire science crowd. They had pictures of fire scenes on the walls, and men fighting fires, and old fire engines, stuff like that. There were helmets and axes on display, and one wall that listed the names and dates when firemen were lost in our state. Lots of other people went there, but we considered it to be "our" bar.

"I don’t know," I said.

"Bring her along," said Phil. "Nobody believes us when we tell them how hot she is."

"I don’t think so," I said. "That’s not her scene."

"He knows what her scene is," sighed Don.

The doors opened and we all turned to look.

Mrs. Gaskill was with my mother.

"No way," said Jerry. "There’s two of them!"

"Oh look," said Mrs. Gaskill in a high voice. "We have an escort!"

The four of us just stared at her.

"Well," she said, her voice normal again. "Aren’t you going to make introductions, Bob?"

"Wait," said Jerry. "You mean she knows you too?" He stared at me as if I’d grown a third eye.

"Mr. Jenkins is one of my most promising students," said Mrs. Gaskill.

"Man," sighed Don. "I have to take art next year."

"Introductions?" prodded Maureen Gaskill.

I stammered out names. She fixed her eyes on Phil.

"Phil …" she said, her voice lingering.

"Yes ma’am?" he replied, suddenly on his best behavior.

"You’re the one with the enormous penis … right?" She smiled gaily.

You know how they say if you want a bully to leave you alone, stand up to him? Well, if you want a braggart to find a little humility, have a truly gorgeous woman ask him about the size of his manhood.

"Maureen," came my mother’s warning voice.

"I’m just teasing," said the gallery owner. She looked at each of the three stooges. "Your friend told us all about you."

"What the fuck?" came Phil’s not so happy voice.

"Bobby says you brag about it all the time. Is that true? Or is he lying?"

Phil turned on me with anger on his face.

"Well you do," I said.

"You’re not supposed to tell them that!" he growled.

"You would, if you were drunk," I argued.

"Well I’m not drunk," he said. "But I will be in about an hour. Thanks for nothing, Jenkins."

"So you’re going to go have a drink?" Maureen’s voice was still innocent and light.

The three stooges, like most men who are overwhelmed by a devastatingly beautiful woman, didn’t believe they really had a chance with her. Good looking women are great for a fantasy, but most men are too intimidated by them to actually try something with one. Especially when someone has torpedoed you by telling the woman you like to brag about how big your dick is. In this case all three of them thought Maureen was making fun of them. They turned to leave, as one.

"Gee, I guess we’ll just have to go find our own drink," said Maureen, sadly.

"Maureen, stop it," said my mother.

"Stop what? A drink sounds good right now. And you must be tense from posing for so long. Bob, do you have any idea where Jennifer and I could find a nice, quiet place to get a drink?"

The three stooges turned around, again as one, and stared at us.

"Don’t drag me into this," I said, holding up both hands.

It sounds like I was all cool and collected, but I wasn’t. What I was, was curious. I didn’t know Maureen Gaskill, other than the couple of times I’d seen her. But I sensed she wasn’t some ditzy, empty-headed brunette. She was a smart, sophisticated woman, and the way she was acting made it clear, to me at least, that she was playing at some game. I didn’t think she was vindictive, or mean. She wasn’t trying to "put my friends in their places." So that meant she might actually want to go out for a drink … right? I remembered my mother saying her friend was looking for a boy toy.

So I thought about how my reply could make her state her real intentions. I thought too long, though.

"I don’t need a drink," came my mother’s voice. I recognized tension in it.

"A drink will do you good," said Maureen.

"I know a place," ventured Phil. He sounded on edge. "But it’s not quiet."

"Is there dancing?" asked Maureen.

"There’s music," said Phil. "Country music."

"I know how to two-step," suggested the woman.

I don’t know about the size of his dick, but Phil had some balls. He walked up to within ten inches of Maureen Gaskill and just looked at her.

"Are you playing with us?" he asked.

She smiled, not at all uncomfortable at his closeness.

"Trust me, tiger. When I’m playing with you, you’ll know."

* * *

To say that our night at Kelsey’s was epic would not be too far from the truth. It certainly went down in the annals of the place.

It started, of course, with the three stooges (and me) bringing two certified hotties into the place. To the non-regulars, the reaction to that must have been puzzling. Four guys and two women walking into a bar doesn’t usually result in hooting and hollering and a rush of bodies whose intent is to find out as much about the two hotties as possible. Even some of the girls drifted over to see what the deal was. We have half a dozen women in the program, but after the initial stages, when romance might be investigated, they usually settle into a sisterly kind of relationship with all the guys. And the guys protect them as a brother might, too.

I heard Maureen introduce herself, to include that she owned the G gallery. Then she put her hand on my mother’s elbow and I cringed. I was about to be unmasked.

"And this is my friend, Jennifer Hart," she said. "Jennifer is in real estate."

Hart? Where had that come from? I saw my mom dart a look at me, and then she was smiling and shaking hands, being herded off to the bar. It was clear neither she nor Maureen would be buying any drinks that night.

The other change they wrought was the dance floor. Kelsey’s had a parquet dance floor, but it was from an earlier incarnation of the bar. It was covered with tables now, and nobody ever danced on it. This was not acceptable to Maureen, however, who intended to demonstrate that she did, in fact, know how to two-step. There was minor chaos as tables and chairs were moved, some ending up being stacked on top of each other. Mickey, the owner, objected at first, but he was overwhelmed. Most of our class was there, and about half of them came from rural parts of the state, and they had two-stepped a-plenty before they went to college. The urge to do it again was irresistible. Within twenty minutes Maureen and four of my classmates were holding an impromptu class in line dancing. Mickey was resigned to the temporary furor and came up with a CD of country music to dance to. He was selling a lot of drinks, so I guess he decided there was a silver lining to this particular chaotic cloud.

My mother had been surrounded, mostly by young men, since she came into the place. She was smiling a lot, but I could tell she was uncomfortable. She’d gotten knocked up at fifteen, was home-schooled until she went to real estate school, and hadn’t dated at all. She wasn’t used to the crush, and the odors, and the noise. She didn’t know what to do, or how to act. She’d been dragged there by a friend who thought it would be good for her. At least that’s what I thought.

So to give her a break, I threaded through the crowd and hooked my arm through hers.

"What are you doing, Jenkins?" asked one of my classmates named Todd. "I was talking to her."

"She’s my old babysitter," I said. "I just need to talk to her for a minute."

"This is her?" asked Todd, his eyes wide. He’d heard all about "my old babysitter" from the three stooges, but hadn’t put two and two together. "Shit, man!" he rasped.

I had to put my arm around her as I led her away. It felt odd, yet normal at the same time, for my hand to be on her waist. I took her toward the patio, which Mickey called "The beer garden." It was chilly outside, but a lot more quiet. She backed up to a trellis and leaned against it.

"I shouldn’t be here," she moaned.

"You’re doing fine," I said.

"I don’t know what to do."

"Just be yourself."

"How can I do that? Maureen re-invented me as Jennifer Hart! I’m living a secret identity!"

"What’s that about, anyway?" I asked.

"I told her who you are," she said.

"What?"

"I had to," she said, reaching to touch my elbow. "When I took that job, I had to sign a form that said I wouldn’t flirt or exchange personal information with students. It could cause her problems. So I had to explain and see if it was all right."

"So she changed your last name?"

"She said you show so much promise that we can’t let this derail you."

"Mom, you basically told her I come there to see you naked!" I hissed.

"I worried about that, but she put me at ease."

"And how did she put you at ease?" I asked.

"She says lots of artists have painted their mothers nude. She made it sound like it’s no big deal."

"But she gave you a secret identity."

"She didn’t want to cause you problems," she explained.

"Well, I guess I owe her for that," I admitted. "Are you at least having fun?"

"I don’t know," she said. "Sort of, I guess. But I don’t know how to act."

"Like I said, just be yourself."

Erica, another of my classmates, came outside with a beer. She gripped the front of her shirt and fanned it back and forth.

"Who thought line dancing would work up that kind of sweat!" she said. She saw who else was out there and came over to us.

"So you’re the woman he gets to see naked," she said, boldly.

"I suppose I am," said Mom.

"You must be very brave. I could never do that … stand there naked in front of a bunch of strangers."

"It’s actually a little boring," said Mom.

"Not for him, I bet," grinned Erica. "And you were really his babysitter?"

"I changed his diaper hundreds of times," said my mom without a pause.

Erica gave us a calculating look.

"Some people say there’s something going on between you two."

"They do?" asked Mom.

"It’s none of my business," said Erica. "But he’s a good guy. Of course, if you are involved with him, you already know that."

"I do," said my mother. I think it was just an automatic response, but Erica’s eyebrows went up.

"You dog," she said, looking at me. "I’m going to dance some more. See you later."

This is how a rumor, spread by the three stooges, can gain traction, and new "evidence" of a relationship be discovered. Erica was just as much of a rumor monger as the rest of us. All she had to do was whisper, "He really is doing her!" to three or four people, and by the time the night was over, everybody was convinced I fucked my mother … I mean Jennifer Hart.

Maureen Gaskill knew how to have fun. I’ll give her that. And she knew how to share that fun. The line dancing soon involved more people than the dance floor would hold, but that was okay. The people who weren’t dancing drank, and that made Mickey happy. My mother got dragged onto the floor and taught - despite her pleas that she wasn’t a dancer - how to do the steps. An hour later, she looked like a natural. I got taught, too. When we weren’t dancing, we tended to stand or sit together. It wasn’t to show we were a "couple". It was just natural, I think. But it reinforced the idea that we were a couple.

Phil forgave me, because Maureen Gaskill teased him all night long, and then left the bar with him. They were both weaving. I went outside and snagged her keys, telling them I’d call a cab. I didn’t have to. One turned and came up the street and I flagged it down. Word had gotten around that fares could be had that night at Kelsey’s. I was somewhat astonished to see, as the cab pulled away, that Phil had a lip-lock on the best looking woman he’d ever gone out with.

Note of interest. When I later asked him how his night went, Phil was uncharacteristically circumspect about it. I knew he didn’t get shot down. He wasn’t acting like that. I suspect she told him if he wanted another shot at her, she’d better not hear any lurid details of how he spent the night. All I got out of him was that he did spend the night. I had other information, but we’ll get to that later.

And, of course, I went home with Jennifer.

It occurred to me, as we went into the house together, that it was now imperative that nobody in my class ever find out where I lived. That hadn’t mattered before. People knew I lived at home. Fire science isn’t the kind of crowd that has study groups. Sometimes people hang out in dorm rooms, but it’s more to talk and drink than study. So it wasn’t likely I had to worry about anyone wanting to come to my house for a study session. But still, if anybody did, it would turn into a full-blown scandal.

My mom turned around and hugged me. That wasn’t unusual. She’d hugged me a thousand times over the years. But this time I felt her soft breasts crush against my chest, and smelled her hair. She’d drunk a lot more than I had, mainly because guys kept wanting to buy her drinks. At least until the word got around she was "mine" and that nobody else had a chance.

"I can’t believe I did that," she sighed into my neck.

"Did you have fun?"

"I had a blast," she sighed. "I missed so much."

"I have a feeling you’ll always be welcome at Kelsey’s," I said.

She pulled away, without releasing me with her hands. Her eyes were round.

"Bobby! People think we have sex together!"

"You can thank the three stooges for that rumor," I said.

"Who?"

"Phil, Don and Jerry," I said.

Her eyes lost focus as her mind went somewhere else.

"Maureen is going to be very naughty tonight."

"She is?"

" Shhhhh," said my mom, putting a fingertip to her lush lips. "It’s a secret!"

"With Phil?" I asked. I felt her loins bump against mine.

"She might find out if he’s lying or not," she said.

"Lying about what?"

"You know," she said. She leaned to whisper right in my ear. "His ginormous pecker!"

"I think maybe you’re ready for bed," I said.

"I think so too," she sighed.

I herded her towards her bedroom. I didn’t want her to stumble and fall. When we got there I got conflicting signals about how tipsy she was. She turned and looked at me.

"Are you going to put me to bed tonight … like last week?"

I had been in a fluctuating state of arousal all night. Just watching her dance gave me a hardon, as her breasts bounced gently under her blouse, or she turned and her perfect ass in those tight jeans came into view. I’d also had some drinks, and maybe that lowered my inhibitions.

"Do you want me to?" I asked.

She lowered her lashes.

"I think I do," she said.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t think about the moral issues, or potential consequences. I just went to her and got her naked. She stood there, not helping in any way. I had to manipulate her arms to get her blouse off. I had to tug and pull repeatedly to get her tight jeans down, taking care not to pull her panties down with them, this time. She did put her hands on my head as I knelt, lifting each foot to let me remove the jeans leg from it. I stood back up and reached around her to fumble with the clasp of her bra, which was white and utilitarian. She didn’t flinch as I removed it, sliding the straps down her arms. she didn’t cover her breasts, or complain when I just stood there and stared at her breasts.

"You’re so beautiful," I whispered.

She did reach, finally, to pull my hands to her hips. Her intent was obvious. I was supposed to remove her panties.

I knelt. In ultra-slow motion I dragged them down. The gusset seemed glued to those bulging pussy lips and I sensed a flood of aroma coming off of her that the panties had muted. I didn’t know enough to know it was the scent of a turned-on woman, of a woman who had been turned on a lot of the night. All I knew was that it smelled wonderful.

We went through the same drill, with her hands on my head as I removed the panties from her feet. She spread her feet apart and stood, as if she was worried about weaving and needed a little extra stability.

I couldn’t help it. I leaned forward and kissed her abdomen just above her mons. It wasn’t a sexual kiss, exactly. She was my mom, and there was a little of just giving-your-mom-a-peck in it. But she was so much more than my mom at that moment. She was a woman, a beautiful woman, a woman many men wanted to be with like this. But I was the one who was with her.

To be honest, I didn’t think about kissing her anywhere else. Not then. As I stood up and my eyes passed over her stiff nipples, I wondered what they’d feel like in my mouth, but I didn’t try to do that, either. It just didn’t feel right.

To my astonishment, when our eyes met, she leaned forward and kissed my lips. It was no "motherly" kiss. Far from it. There was passion in that kiss, the kind of passion that invites more passion. Yet, when she pulled back, it was suddenly gone. It had happened and it had been fantastic, but it had also been enough.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you, too," I replied.

"I know, and that means more to me than you’ll ever know," she said.

Then she got in bed and pulled the covers up and I knew it was time to leave.

I confess I didn’t pull up porn on the internet that night, as I jerked off.

I thought about her.

* * *

The next morning I got up first. I knew how to make pancakes, too, so I did that. I was frying the first one when she shuffled in. She was wearing her silk kimono again.

"My head hurts," she said.

"That comes from drinking beer after you drink bourbon," I said.

"I drank too much last night," she moaned.

"Live and learn," I said.

Suddenly she was alert.

"Are you okay, honey?"

"I’m great," I said. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine, if you’re fine," she said. "I was afraid I did something wrong last night."

"All I did was kiss my mother good night," I said. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was worried about.

"Good," she said. "Can we talk about it?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Do I need to turn the skillet off?"

"I don’t think so."

"Okay, shoot."

It was quiet for a while. I looked at her, but then looked back at the pancake.

"I liked it," she said.

"Okay."

"I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to like it," she said.

"Maybe you could be more specific?"

"I like posing for you … naked," she said. "And I liked kissing you. And I liked it when you put me to bed. I like all of it. Is something wrong with me?"

I turned the skillet off. I put the pancake on a plate and left it for later. We had a microwave. I sat down and reached for her hands.

"If there’s something wrong with you, then it’s wrong with me, too," I said.

"Wow," she said, her eyes wide. "Really?"

"Yup."

"Last night, at the bar … when I heard the whispers about … us. I can’t describe how that made me feel," she sighed.

"If it makes it any easier, I had a boner about half the night, just from looking at you," I said. “I get them when you’re posing too.” This was so sudden, this opening of our hearts to each other, but it also felt so right … so normal. We’d always been able to talk about pretty much anything. Except my father, of course.

"So you get erections for … your mother," she whispered.

"I get erections for a beautiful woman who happens to be my mother," I said. "Wait!" I said.

"What?"

"Last night I got erections for a woman named Jennifer Hart," I said. "Jennifer Hart is not my mother. She’s my hot, former babysitter."

"That was so silly," she said.

"That was so necessary," I said. "People know my last name is Jenkins."

"Yes," said Mom. She looked at me. "How can I feel this way about my own son?"

"Maybe you don’t. Maybe you feel this way about a hot, fire science student," I tried. "You know, like Mrs. Gaskill."

"Nice try," she said. "This can’t be normal."

"I don’t know. Like I said, Freud made a whole career out of sons wanting their mothers and mothers wanting their sons."

"Bobby, I almost took you to bed last night!" she snapped.

"I wish you’d told me that before I left the room," I teased.

"This isn’t funny," she said.

"Do you know what I did when I went to my room?"

"What?"

"I jerked off like a crazed monkey," I said.

Instead of looking horrified, she looked … interested.

"Really?"

"Uh huh. Like I said, whatever’s wrong with you is wrong with me, too."

"What are we going to do?" she moaned.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

I got a very direct look.

"I can’t do what I want to do," she said, evenly.

"Okay then," I said. "Don’t."

"What am I supposed to do?" she moaned.

"Think about it, I guess," I said.

"Will you?"

"I can’t help but," I said.

And that was it for that morning. She had a house to show and she went to do that. I had homework, so I got that out of the way. The rest of the day was normal as pie.

The next week was normal, too. We didn’t talk about … things … anymore, and Friday morning, when I got up, she was already gone.

Art Lab also seemed normal, if getting an erection for your posing mother is normal. She looked at me, but no more than she looked at the other artists. Some people had finished the rough work and were working on getting paint on the canvas. I had stuck with pencil and was thinking about using some charcoal.

Only Phil was waiting for us afterwards, and the way Maureen greeted him made it clear he wasn’t being a nuisance. They wanted to go to Kelsey’s again. This time I determined not to drink too much.

Apparently my mother was being careful, too. Nobody was buying her drinks that night, because the word had gotten around she was my girlfriend. That said, three non-regulars sent her a drink, hoping she’d abandon the kids and come sit with them. At one point we were dancing a slow song and she whispered in my ear.

"You’re hard. I can feel it."

"Nothing’s changed on that front," I replied.

"I still can’t do what I want to," she moaned.

My dick flexed in my pants. Maybe something snapped inside me. Maybe I just went for broke. I don’t know.

"Who would know if you did?" I asked, quietly.

She wasn’t put off. We’d already gone too far, said too much, to back down now.

"You would know," she said.

"I don’t spread rumors, like my friends," I said.

She wouldn’t talk anymore, and we left shortly afterwards.

When we got home, she went to her bedroom and came back out wearing her silk kimono. She got out the bottle of sour mash I had taken away from her two weeks before. This time she just poured two fingers in a tumbler and sat on the couch.

"I don’t know what to do," she said.

"Look," I said. "I know why I feel the way I do. Maybe if we look at why you feel the way you do, it will help understand all this."

"How do you feel?" she asked, her voice thick.

To show her I just stripped to my boxers and let her see the tent in them. It wasn’t fighting fair, but then all is fair in love and war, right?

"Make me a grilled cheese sandwich," she said.

I blinked. I show her my junk and she gets hungry for a grilled cheese sandwich?

I went to the kitchen and got out the fixin’s. When the pan was hot, I spread some safflower oil in it.

"You know I always use a pat of real butter," she said, suddenly standing beside me.

"That’s your thing," I said. "I’m different."

"It’s interesting that you said that," she said. "You are different. You’re not like other men I’ve known."

"You raised me to be different," I pointed out.

"I did," she said. "And you are. And that’s very attractive."

"Attractive is good," I said.

She went behind me and pressed the front of her kimono to my back.

"I’m still not sure I should be this attracted, though," she said.

That was when she slid her hands into the front of my boxers, and gripped my erection firmly.

Chapter Four

"Hoooo boy," I breathed. Her right hand was exploring, moving along the length of my cock. Her left hand cupped my balls and hefted them.

"Am I freaking you out?" she asked in my ear.

"I’m about to have an accident," I gasped.

Her hand gripped tight around my penis. I couldn’t have cum if my life had depended on it.

"Let’s not be in a hurry," she breathed.

"I’ve never done this," I panted. "I don’t know what is and isn’t a hurry."

"My baby is a virgin," she moaned.

"Your baby is … your baby," I gasped. I was worried she was less sober than I thought and I didn’t want her to do something she’d hate herself for later.

"I know, but I can’t help it," she moaned. "This is so confusing! I know it’s wrong, but I want it so much. All night long all I wanted to do was hold you and kiss you and love you."

"I get that," I panted. "All night long I was like I am right now, just from watching you."

"Like this?" She squeezed my prick.

"Yes!" I gasped.

"Turn off the stove, Bobby," came her voice in my ear. "I’m not hungry after all."

"Okay," I whimpered.

I reached to do that as her hands moved in my shorts.

"Ohhhh I don’t want to let go," she whined.

"Okay," I whined back at her.

"But I have to."

"It’s okay," I panted. "I know you’re just trying to do the right thing."

Her hands slid out of my shorts and I gave a huge sigh. I realized I’d been holding my breath, for the most part. I’d used a little air to say a few words, but the rest had been milling around in my chest, looking for a way out. I felt myself being turned around until I was chest-to-chest with my mother. I could feel her breasts brushing against my chest and her lips were inches from my own.

"I’m not trying to stop, Bobby," she breathed. "I just had to let go of you so I could do this."

She knelt and, rather roughly, I thought, jerked my boxers down to my knees. My penis, possibly harder than it had ever been in my whole life, got caught, pulled down painfully, and then popped gleefully out, to slap audibly upwards against my abdomen. When it stopped bobbing it was pointing almost straight up, as if it was staring at both of our faces.

Except her face wasn’t up there anymore. It was right there, next to my little buddy. I could feel her breathing on it.

"It is bigger than the last time I saw it," she sighed.

I wanted to laugh. My body even tried to laugh, but that would have required that some of my muscles relax, and every muscle in my body was just as rigid as my cock was.

"It’s beautiful," she breathed.

She reached for it. The same hand I had roughed in on my easel earlier that night gripped my penis and pulled it downward, until it was pointed at her face. Panic made it further impossible to breathe as I realized I was about to paint my mother in another fashion … outside the art lab. I was about to spurt all over her face.

"Mom!" I was able to gasp.

She looked up at me. It was as if there was unspoken communication going on.

"Of course," she said.

Then, instead of stopping me, she stroked my penis twice. I felt the sweet pain of ejaculation begin and my arms rose to flap at my sides, like some demented bird.

She simply leaned forward, opened her mouth, and expertly skinned my foreskin back. Then she sealed the tip of my prick inside as my semen joyfully leapt out into the world. Or her mouth, as it happened. Her cheeks caved in as she sucked gently on my knob, and I heard, rather than saw, her swallow. In the space of less than a minute, I went from virgin to … well, something else. I’d gotten my first blow job … sort of.

My muscles relaxed suddenly, and I had to catch myself on the edge of the counter to keep from folding up and falling on the floor. My mother looked up at me with her beautiful eyes, in her beautiful face. She was smiling. There was a little white drip of something … of me … at one corner of her mouth. Her fingers came to wipe it off as she stood.

"Come with me," she said, her voice husky. She took my hand and pulled. I stumbled, but caught myself as strength flowed into my legs. I had to hobble, a bit, as my boxers were still at half mast on my legs, and restricted me from taking a full step.

When it became clear she was leading me to her bedroom, I tugged at her. I was fully aware I’d just had the hardest, most satisfying, most energetic orgasm of my life. If things went based on the historical record, I was already mostly soft, and was going to be that way for the rest of the night.

"I can’t," I gasped.

She stopped and turned to face me.

"Yes you can."

I realized she thought I was trying to stop for moral reasons.

"I think you broke it," I panted, in explanation.

"It’s been a long time," she said, her voice almost normal, “but I remember how quickly your father could go again. You’ll be fine."

It was surreal. Only ten minutes before she’d been agonized about the direction she was leaning towards. For me it was different. I’m a guy. I want to have sex, even if it’s with my mother. Actually, since then I’ve learned that’s not true. A large proportion of the male population isn’t interested in their mothers that way. It turns out that it’s really pretty black and white. A guy either thinks his mother is sexy, or he doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be much in-between. On the other hand, it does seem to be true that most men choose a woman to marry who has many of his mother’s characteristics. All of this is based on anecdotal evidence, of course, but it looks that way to me.

Now, however, all doubt was gone. Whether she’d just rationalized it in her own mind, or whether the act of sucking the sperm from my balls had overcome some barrier, things were now clear for her. She’d made her decision and our relationship had undergone a critical change in the last few minutes.

When we got to her room, she let go of me and shrugged off her robe. She was naked under it. Just like that, the model I had lusted after so much was there, in the room with me, naked, willing.

It was too good to be true. Worry seized me. What if this screwed things up? What if she hated herself tomorrow?

"Mom!" I said, probably too loudly.

She looked at me.

"Are you sober?"

Cut me a little slack, here. I had been dropped into an episode of some science fiction serial, into an alternate dimension, perhaps. I wasn’t at my best, in terms of clear thinking. My mind just threw out what I was worried about.

"Pretty much," she said.

Now that reply could be taken two ways, in my own alcohol-dulled mind. One way was that her intent in bringing me to her bedroom and getting naked had nothing to do with sex. Rather, maybe she intended to put on some outfit and ask me if I thought it looked good on her. Or maybe she intended to take a shower and wanted me to guard the door. Maybe she wanted to teach me how to knit. It could mean she wasn’t so drunk that she’d commit full-blown incest.

On the other hand, it could also mean she was drunk enough that she was going to do something she thought (or would later think) was stupid. It could mean she was drunk enough that her rational mind wasn’t present, fully aware of what she was doing.

She communicated which of those meanings it was by lying on the bed and assuming the pose she used in the studio, with one of her pillows under her armpit. Her fingers, rather than lying on her abdomen, though, went to press and rub her bulging vulva. It glistened, and her fingers began to glisten as they rubbed.

"Come here, Bobby," she said, softly.

I looked down at my flaccid penis. My mind was willing, but my flesh had deserted me.

"I can’t," I moaned.

"Come here!" she commanded.

I was sober enough to know it would be silly to leave my boxers where they were. I bent over and pushed them the rest of the way down, kicking them off. I crawled onto the bed.

She guided me to lie beside her, not quite touching her. I just naturally got into a similar pose, except that I didn’t reach for her other pillow to stuff under my armpit. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stared at her.

"Bobby," she said, softly. "I don’t want to hurt you."

"I’m not hurt," I said. I blinked. "Part of me isn’t working right now, but I think it will eventually be okay."

She smiled.

"I want this to work between us. It’s important that whatever happens, be the right thing … for us."

"It is," I said, mindlessly.

She didn’t roll her eyes, but I think it was a close thing.

"I’ve never talked to you about your father," she said.

I leaned back. Where had this come from? Here I was, naked with the most beautiful woman in the world. I could imagine the taste of my semen was still in her mouth, and she wanted to talk about that?

"That’s because he hurt me badly," she said. She paused, and since I couldn’t think of anything to say, I kept quiet. "I was crazy about him," she finally went on. I thought he felt the same way. I know now that just used me, that all he wanted was the sex, but I was blinded by my feelings back then."

"I’m sorry," I finally got out.

"I know," she said, dismissively. "What I want you to know, though, is that I loved the sex, too. I loved everything he did to me and … well … he was very inventive. He wanted a lot of sex, and he liked doing it in lots of different ways."

I wondered why she was telling me this. Then I remembered how easily, how casually, she’d taken my cock in her mouth when it went off.

"Then he disappointed me," she said.

Talk about the understatement of the century.

"I couldn’t trust men after that," she went on. “But I still wanted to feel … those things … the things he had made me feel. That has never gone away, but I never trusted another man enough to let him … help me. I had to use … other measures."

Her talking had made me more comfortable. I hadn’t been required to do anything other than lie there and listen, something I was fully capable of, so I had relaxed a little. I also couldn’t see her body, which helped. Looking at her face felt pretty normal, so I behaved a little closer to normal.

"Like what?" I asked.

She looked me dead in the eye.

"I own a collection of sorts, of what I believe they call adult toys."

Images of pictures I’d seen online flitted through my head. Primarily they were amorphous, meaning I didn’t get a clear picture of the girl’s face or body. What was in all of them, though, was an oversized dildo of some sort, usually either beside a grinning (amorphous) face, or plugged into a very full pussy.

"Okay," I croaked.

"That’s been acceptable … until now," she said, so softly I could barely hear her. Her voice got a little stronger. "Now I’ve found a man I do trust, a man who won’t abandon me, no matter what … a man I already love with all my heart."

I kid you not. At that exact moment, I felt my penis twitch, and knew, somehow, that it was trying to get hard again.

"I don’t want to … damage … that man," she said, "but I want very badly to make love with him."

"Me?" I squeaked.

The change to her face was dramatic. She looked disgusted for a split second.

"Of course you," she snapped. "The question is, what do you want?"

There was a surge of emotion that rushed through me, then. It’s hard to describe it. It felt hot and cold at the same time. There was terror and elation, dancing around with each other. There was hope, and the fear of disaster. I couldn’t verbalize it effectively. I can’t even describe it now, effectively. I think my mind fell back on a very routine response, but this routine response was backed up by incredible passion.

"I love you," I said.

"I know that," she said, patiently.

"No, I mean I really love you," I gushed. "I’m not damaged!"

"Are you sure?"

I nodded, like a bobble head doll … like an idiot.

"Oh Bobby," she sighed.

Then she leaned forward to kiss me.

I can describe later … um … family meetings (her habit, in the future, would be to announce, "I think we need to have a family meeting," when she was horny and wanted to make love) in great detail, and with impressive accuracy. This first one, though, is like a cloud of smoke, through which I can see bits and pieces of what happened. It was eerily like being in a burning building, trying to search it. I think I went into sensory overload. But I’ll list what I remember.

There was lots of kissing, long, wet kisses. Tongues were involved. While that was going on, it was like we were trying to crawl into each other’s skin. I wanted to touch every square inch of her. She sucked me again, but this time only to get me as hard as possible. She pulled me on top of her and I remember the most intense heat surrounding my cock, like I’d pushed it into not-quite-fire. I remember her voice in my ear, saying, "It’s okay. Your father could go four times a night." I remember cumming - more than once - but not the details of any of that. I remember sucking her nipples and the sound of her voice telling me how much she loved that. I remember being dog-tired and smelling her hair as we just cuddled.

And I remember waking up, in bed with her. We were both still naked, of course. I had a raging hardon, but it was just morning wood and it disappeared as soon as I relieved my bladder. She was sitting up in bed when I came out of the bathroom, her hair tousled, rubbing her eyes. She looked fabulous. She looked at me and smiled weakly.

"We might have overdone it a little last night," she sighed.

I stared at her.

"I’m a little sore," she said.

"Oh."

"I don’t know about Phil, but you might be able to give him a run for his money."

It was surreal. It was as normal as was possible, under the circumstances. The world had changed, overnight, and it was obvious she was trying to pick up the pieces and go on with life.

I went to the bed and stood there.

"I love you so much," I said, dropping to one knee.

Her face relaxed.

"I’m so glad," she said.

"And I love what happened," I said. I frowned. "What I remember of what happened."

"I took advantage of you," she said, with a frown. "You’d been drinking. You’re too young to drink, Bobby. I knew that, but I let you anyway, because I think I already knew what I was going to do when we got home."

"You got me drunk and took advantage of me," I groaned. I put the back of my hand to my forehead and pretended to swoon. "Whatever shall I do?" I moaned.

"This isn’t a joke, Bobby. What happened last night was taboo. It might even be illegal, for all I know. If you can’t remember it, you drank too much and maybe I did take advantage of you!"

"That’s not the problem," I said. "The problem is that it was like trying to cram for ten tests at the same time. There was just too much there to be able to remember it all."

"Oh," she said, brightly. "Well, from now on, we’ll only study for one test at a time, okay?"

I swear my dick got hard right there in front of her. One minute it was happily flaccid and the next it was straining towards her.

"You are your father’s son," she said. "I’m a mess. I need a shower. I assume you know how to take care of that?" She pointed one finger at my dick.

"I now know several ways," I said, cheekily.

"You’re going to have to use one that doesn’t involve me," she said. "I have a house to show at ten."

"Curses," I growled. "Foiled again!"

She stood up, regally naked. I looked to see clear evidence of our joining dried on her inner thighs. I had made love with this woman, for what seemed like most of the night. She came towards me and gave me a loose hug.

"Don’t worry. You won’t have to take care of things yourself later."

You wouldn’t believe how difficult it was to keep my hand away from my cock right then and there.

At least I waited until she was in the bathroom, with the water running.

* * *

Again if this was one of those things you see in Penthouse Forum, it would describe us having sex every day, all the time like newlyweds, sleeping together and carrying on as if everything was pie in the sky.

It wasn’t like that at all. Mom went to show the house and I went to the library to work on a paper. She was home when I got home. I got the usual hug as I asked her how it went, and she said it looked promising, but otherwise she acted as if nothing had happened. I could tell, though, that everything was okay. It was just a feeling. She wasn’t acting hinky or sorry or any of that, so I just didn’t worry about it.

Somebody had invented a video game designed to teach fire science students where to aim streams of water (or foam) to put out a fire, and how to search a dark, smoky building for survivors. It was fun because if you did things wrong, people "died." I don’t mean people dying was fun. I mean there was a level of pride when you got through a level and people didn’t die. Everybody in the fire science program got a copy of the game, that you could play on your laptop. I played that for a while, and then I smelled something delicious and went to find out what it was. It turned out to be Lasagna and garlic bread. There were green beans to go with it and we ate together in the kitchen. We had a dining room, but only used it when other people were there.

As supper wound down, I found out she had been thinking about things.

"You know, what we did last night is how I ended up being pregnant with you," she said.

I thought she was talking about the spontaneity of it, how it had been unplanned.

"Rodney never used a condom with me," she said, her eyes getting unfocused. "He said if I really loved him, condoms weren’t necessary."

"This, from the guy who raped you?" I said.

Her eyes cleared. "I didn’t think of it as rape," she said. "Two of the girls were there, helping him, the first time. I thought it was part of cheerleader initiation or something. Then afterwards, when he apologized and said he loved me and couldn’t live without me, I wanted to believe him."

"I would so kick his ass if I met him today," I growled.

"I’d enjoy that, if it didn’t land you in jail," she admitted. "At least that’s the way I feel until I realize he’s responsible for you. I could never be unhappy that you were born. You’ve grown up to be everything I hoped he was, back then."

"Do you know what happened to him?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "He went to law school. His father was a lawyer. Now he’s a high-dollar criminal defense lawyer in Boston."

"What’s his last name?" I asked.

She smiled at me.

"That’s for me to know and you to never find out. You just become a fireman and do good things in life."

"So, what now?" I asked, beginning to think with my balls.

"What now?"

"What do we do … tonight?"

The look she gave me made my nuts crinkle.

"I don’t want what we have to become commonplace. It’s too special for that."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means I can resist you most of the time," she said. "On Friday nights, after I pose for you I doubt I’ll have any control at all."

"You pose for a lot more people than me," I said.

"It may have started that way," she replied, "but I’ll only be posing for you from now on. The others are peeping Toms."

I grinned.

"You have a lot more control than I do."

"I’m aware of that," she said. "You are a man, after all. You should date girls your own age, Bobby."

"I’m not so good at that," I said. "It always gets awkward."

"Well, I’m not the person to give you dating advice," she said. "Maybe I could ask Maureen to give you some tips."

"Not a good idea," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because she’s almost as gorgeous as you are," I said. "That first night, when I found out the nude model was my smoking hot mother, I tried to think of Mrs. Gaskill to take my mind off of what I wanted to do with you."

"The first night?"

"Yup."

"You wanted … that … the very first night?"

"Like you said, I am a man."

"You keep your hands off her, Mister."

"I plan to, especially since Phil has a claim on her now."

"Phil had better not tell her he’s claiming her," said Mom. "She’ll cut him off at the knees."

"He’s not bragging about her," I said. "Not like he has with other women. I think she’s got a real hold on him."

"She likes him," said Mom. "She says under that brash exterior he’s sensitive and caring."

"I think most of us are," I said. "It takes a sensitive and caring guy to get excited about getting a cat out of a tree for some old lady or little girl."

"That’s just a myth," snorted my mother.

"Not at all. We had a whole lecture on non-standard support of the community. The eggheads say it’s necessary because it balances out the fact that we sometimes can’t save people’s lives and property from fires."

"You’re kidding," she said.

"Not kidding," I said. "Our job is to save property and lives. And people sometimes expect us to save lives other than human ones."

"My taxes at work," she sighed.

"What do you have against kittens?" I teased.

"Nothing, as long as my son doesn’t fall off a ladder and get hurt trying to save one."

"Aww, you worry about me," I teased some more.

"Of course I do. I’m your mother. In one sense, that’s why I decided to do what we did last night."

"Beg pardon?"

"If you were with me, I knew you were safe. Lots of girls were eyeing you at Kelsey’s. Some of them might be like Tiffany and Ramona, the two girls who helped Rodney rape me. If you were with me, you couldn’t be with them."

"I thought you wanted me to go out with girls my own age," I said.

"I do," she said. She frowned. "And I don’t." She fiddled with her fork. "This is all very confusing for me, Bobby."

"Me, too," I said, reaching to take her hand. "I don’t mind taking it slowly."

"Thank you," she said. "It means a lot to me that you aren’t eager."

"Oh, I’m eager," I said. "But I won’t push you. The last thing I want to do is cause us problems. I love you too much to do that."

"Okay, stop," she said, holding up one hand, palm facing me. "You’re starting to affect my control."

"Tell me more," I said, leering.

"I will not tell you more. The last thing I need is for you to know how to push my buttons."

"You push my buttons," I teased.

"That’s because men have buttons like a porcupine has quills, spread all over their bodies, and which stick out in all directions. It takes very little for a man’s buttons to get pushed."

"So I’m a porcupine?"

"I certainly got stuck by you last night," she said. "Now shoo. I don’t want to be around you right now. I’m going to take care of these dishes and then take a bath."

Chapter Five

My mother did have more, or at least better, control than I did.

While she took her bath I stood outside the door, listening to her hum, and masturbated. Later that night, in my own bed, I masturbated again.

But it wasn’t too bad for the next six days, as I waited not all that patiently for Friday to roll around. I jerked off a lot more than I had in the past. It was an easy cum to imagine her with one of her adult toys, using it while she thought of me. I know that’s kind of vain, but since I could no longer think of any other woman when I jerked a load out - not even Mrs. Gaskill - I didn’t think it was a stretch that she might imagine me while she took care of things.

It would be two years before I learned she masturbated even more than I did, back in those days. She’d been pretty happy getting busy with Mr. Dildo once a week before I inadvertently overwhelmed her defenses. In the three weeks after that, she masturbated four or five times a day. Once, she said she jilled off in the car, between appointments. She had starved herself from having a man’s affection. Granted, it hadn’t been so much a voluntary fast, as a feeling that every food she saw would probably give her food poisoning, but the effect was the same. When she let loose with me, she realized what she’d been missing and now she craved more. To extend the food analogy, she went off her diet hard, and chose to gorge on the most fattening, unhealthy food available - me.

She knew just how fattening and unhealthy that food was, so she worked hard to keep it cool as a cucumber when she was around me during the week.

With the exception of Friday nights.

It turned out Mrs. Gaskill was quite happy with Phil and what turned out to be his actually oversized dong. She told my mother it wasn’t actually his size that hooked her, though that helped, but his willingness to listen to her about how to best use it. Maureen Gaskill was most definitely a cougar. That gave my mother the idea of teaching me things.

So, each Friday night, quite often after we stopped off at Kelsey’s for a drink, we would try something new at home. Things didn’t get too wild at Kelsey’s after that first blowout. Part of that was because the regulars already knew who Mom and Maureen were. The initial shock of two unfamiliar, gorgeous women coming into the bar was gone. Another part was that it became pretty clear that Maureen and Phil were a thing, and that Jennifer and Bob were another thing. After the third or fourth time we all arrived together (Phil was always waiting for her after art lab on Friday nights), it was old hat, as far as the others were concerned. There was still some dancing, but the tables were back on the dance floor. You can teach an old dog new tricks. Mickey was smart enough that he planned - and advertised - line dancing nights, when he cleared the dance floor just for that reason.

At this late date, I might get things out of the order they actually went in, with my mother and me. It was too long, and too many things ago. I remember what happened, but I’m not positive about the sequence. So I’ll just tell you all the things that happened.

One Friday night, for example, we got home and, after a smoking-hot kiss in the kitchen, during which she rubbed her loins against mine and moaned, she pulled back and said, "I noticed tonight that I need to take care of some stubble. You want to help me?"

I had never shaved anything but my own face. I tried to be an attentive student as we got naked. She said we both had to be naked while this happened and I didn’t argue. I had to rub the lather in a lot, way more than I thought was "necessary," but I didn’t point that out. She was propped up in bed, leaning back on a stack of pillows, with her knees bent and her legs wide open. There was a towel under her butt. I was as hard as stone, but I had actually practiced trying to make my masturbatory sessions last longer, drawing them out, imagining myself lasting long enough that she got her cookies. I had no idea how to give a woman her cookies, but I knew she could get them. I had a dim memory of my mother’s voice, groaning about cumming.

Finally she handed me the razor and I carefully dragged it through the lather. I don’t know if it’s that they make women’s razors differently, or because I was hyper-aware, but I could actually feel the blade slicing through hairs. It was amazing. And when I went over a place I’d already gotten I could tell I’d already gotten it.

Eventually there was more clean skin, streaked with white, than there were unshaven areas. I had my thumb on the top of her split, because she’d instructed me to stabilize things by doing that, while I pulled against the grain. It wasn’t until I was almost finished that I realized that was where her mysterious clit was.

When I was in high school I went out with a girl named Jolene. Jolene was hot to trot, so much so that she said she wasn’t a virgin and wanted me to fuck her. It was so out of character for the girls I knew that it scared me a little bit. Or maybe worried me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was more like what kept popping into my mind was that, if she fucked around, she might recognize what a complete infant I was when it came to this sort of thing, or might have a disease or something. Oh, and the fact that I barely knew her. I thought it was kind of crazy that she’d just do that with a virtual stranger.

Anyway she got my hand in her pants, during the process, and I rubbed away like I thought I was supposed to do. I had no idea what I was doing. I knew girls had clits, but nothing about what to do with one. She acted like she was having a good time, though. Eventually, we both got mostly naked, but all that worrying I’d been doing had taken its toll. I couldn’t get hard. Not hard enough to penetrate her, anyway.

It was a disaster. She was obviously disgusted. She never dimed me out about it, which was good. But the best part of it was that, three weeks later, she announced that she was pregnant and that Tom Buckingham was the father. I thought it was interesting that she’d gone out with me on Friday night, and Tom the following night. He did fuck her, apparently, so he could believe it was his kid. It was also interesting that she had that baby prematurely. Tom’s parents had been taking care of her medical bills and all that. When the baby was born almost two months early, but was a fully formed infant, things went to shit for Jolene.

My point is that, even though I dodged that particular bullet, I also didn’t learn a whole lot about Ms. Clitoris.

My mother was a great teacher. I mentioned the appearance of her sexual opening. It looked like something had broken open and was spilling out. I learned all about outer and inner labia. I thought it was fascinating that, before she had me, her outer labia had been closed and firm. After I was born, her inner labia protruded. She thought it looked awful and only after Mrs. Gaskill laughed at her about it, did she realize that some people found that to be sexy.

She also found out I thought it looked sexy … yummy … good enough to eat.

I wanted nothing more than to climb on her, put my penis in her, and ejaculate. Really, I could have done that and been quite happy. This is probably what the vast majority of men (so the women in my life tell me) do. They satisfy their own initial craving and, if they think of the woman at all, assume she can get her jollies whenever she wants to, just like they can.

On the other hand, I wanted to play with those full pussy lips, and hear her sighs and moans as she taught me to rub gently, and hard, in circles, and across the stiff bud. At one point I got ahead of schedule and couldn’t resist leaning forward to kiss what I’d been rubbing.

"Yessss, suck it," she hissed.

That commenced a whole new chapter in the clitoris book. It took me maybe ten full minutes to learn what drove her crazy. That drove me crazy, too. And, when I finally stood on my knees and started jerking off because I just couldn’t stand it any longer, she reached and pulled, guiding the tip of my prick to those swollen, bulging lips. I watched as my prick pushed aside loose skin and slid into her.

And I spurted. Just like that. I barely got it all the way in her. Talk about your premature ejaculations.

She cooed that it was okay and pulled me down to make out. She didn’t mind kissing my lips, even though they were covered with her juices. I kept pushing, trying to cum more, even after I was finished. I was very unhappy because it was over too quickly. At the same time, making out with her was a blast.

Eventually she pushed me off of her and sucked me until I was long and stiff again. She pushed me onto my back and mounted me, cowgirl style. It was just as new as everything else, so I just went with it. She felt good, sinking down on me. She looked good, sitting up there, with her thrusting breasts and those long, stiff nipples.

She moved almost languidly, talking softly, telling me what she was doing. She leaned forward and gave me the blow-by-blow as she rubbed an orgasm out. It was fascinating, watching her face twist and scrunch up as she came. This position, or maybe the fact that I’d cum already, made it easy to just be there, like a new adult toy she was testing out.

She taught me about how a woman could have multiple orgasms by having three on top of me.

Then she went from being completely in charge, to lying on her back with her heels by her ears and making herself helpless as I slid into her again. This was strange, because she was impossibly limber, maybe from the Pilates, and my chest was resting on the back of her thighs. I could tell I was going much deeper, and felt the tip of my prick abusing something firm at the end of her tunnel.

"I can’t stop you from cumming in me," she panted.

I was so preoccupied with how this felt that I just kept stroking.

"I’m helpless in this position," she wheezed.

I started to let my weight off of her and her hands came to grip my elbows. Her intent was crystal clear. She wanted to be helpless.

"You can cum in me any time you want to when I’m like this," she whined.

"I’m going to," I said, wondering if that was the right thing to say.

"You shouldn’t," she moaned. "It’s the wrong time of the month."

I was confused. Remember, I had so little experience that I’d never thought about things from a birth control point of view. I didn’t understand, then, what this time of the month had to do with anything. I knew she had periods, because I knew she got PMS. It wasn’t awful when she did, though. She was just sulky and moody and I usually left her alone.

But I never thought about what her having periods meant, biologically. We’d had a section on it in health, but I wasn’t the best student back then, and I hadn’t thought it would ever mean anything. It was just like math. When in the world would I ever need to know trigonometry? So it was easy to not pay all that much attention.

But I also sensed that something was going on here that was another new thing she was teaching me. I knew adults engaged in role play. Wasn’t that what the Little French Maid outfit was all about? So I thought maybe she was playing some role.

"I’m going to," I said, trying to sound firm.

"You shouldn’t," she moaned.

"I’m going to," I said again.

"I can’t stop you," she groaned.

What I didn’t know was that there was no role playing going on at all. Not then. She’d showed me that position because the quarterback had made her get that way lots of times. He’d told her how helpless she was while he intentionally inseminated her, trying to knock her up. She found out later that he always did that with the girls who fell for his lines. The rumor was that he got two other girls pregnant before his parents shipped him off to Yale. His lawyer father knew how to help him avoid responsibility though.

He’d messed her mind up, back then. She’d only been fifteen, and he’d dominated her completely. Some part of her grew to want that, in some form or fashion. In psychology, we studied about how some children intentionally get into trouble to get attention from their parents. It’s the only way they know to get that attention and the parents are too damaged themselves to understand they aren’t giving the child what it needs. Something like that was going on in my mother, but it was different too. She’d worked for years and years to get her mind healthy. She’d never been able to shake her distrust of men in general but now she was with a man she loved and wanted to have touch her sexually. She put herself in the position that had unhappy and uncomfortable memories associated with it, but she did it with a man she loved, hoping that it would be different.

It worked, in a way. She wasn’t terrified when I kept going. I did cum in her that way, and I was probably pretty enthusiastic about it. It did displace some bad memories. But we never did it that way again.

What I guess I’m trying to say is that there was no user manual for us to read. She had experience out the wazoo, but some of it wasn’t happy experience. I rarely knew what the hell was going on. I was just along for the ride. But the passion we shared, the depth of love we felt for each other, helped us rise above the difficult parts. It was amazing, considering that all this was completely taboo, and that neither of us could ask for help or get any wisdom from anybody else.

By the way. One reason I never took her in that position again was because when I spurted in her, and realized she was so helpless, it felt wrong. I never wanted her to be helpless with me again.

* * *

Another week passed. It was slightly different than the week before, because I got way more long kisses than I had in the past. We didn’t do anything else, but those kisses were hum-dingers. I almost always had to go jerk off after them.

Another Friday night came around. When I got to the lab, Phil was standing outside the door.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I wanted to go in," he said. "She told me to get out."

"Well duh," I said. "You’re not in the class."

"I just wanted to see her."

"Did you two have a fight?" I asked.

"No. I thought things were fine," he said. "Then she said she had something else to do tonight."

I shrugged.

"Maybe you could ask Jennifer to talk to her," he suggested.

"Okay," I said, shrugging again.

He left, telling me he’d have his phone on vibrate so that if I called him he could feel it. I figured he was headed for Kelsey’s.

We had the class and, oddly, it was easier for me to look at my mom. I was familiar enough with her body that it wasn’t a novelty to see her naked anymore, and of course I knew I would not only see that body later, but make love with her, too. So I got more done on my drawing. The charcoal was working out. It was easy to make shadows with it.

I couldn’t talk to her during class, but I waited for her as usual afterwards by the front doors of the building. When she came out, Maureen was with her.

"I’m supposed to ask you" (I pointed at my mother) “to talk to her" (I pointed at Maureen) “about why Phil can’t see her tonight. He’s down in the dumps."

They exchanged a look that I had no idea what meant.

"That’s none of your business," said Maureen.

I held up my hands in surrender.

"I’m just telling you what he asked me to do."

"I’ll deal with him," said Maureen, but she didn’t sound angry. She looked at my mother. "Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do."

There was another one of those odd looks and then she walked away toward the parking lot.

"What’s going on?" I asked.

"I’m not supposed to tell you," she said.

"Are you going to anyway?"

"Will Maureen ever find out I spilled the beans?"

"Not in a million years," I said.

"Then, of course I’ll tell you," she said, smiling.

* * *

I was sitting in the big bathtub in my mother’s bathroom. It had whirlpool jets in it and was big enough for two people. She was leaning back against me. The jets were noisy, so we hadn’t turned them on. We were just soaking. My hands were playing with her breasts. For once, her nipples weren’t rock hard. Maybe it was the hot water that came up to our shoulders.

"Maureen likes dangerous sex," she said, beginning her explanation of what was going on.

"What’s dangerous sex?" I asked. Visions of sex while skydiving popped into my head. I told you I was pretty clueless.

"She doesn’t use birth control."

"That’s what condoms are for," I said, proudly displaying what knowledge I did have.

"She doesn’t make him wear a condom."

"Wow," I said.

"So when things are a little too dangerous, she won’t be with him."

"Too dangerous as in she might get pregnant?" I guessed.

"Exactly."

"Well he should be okay with that," I said.

"She hasn’t told him any of this."

"What?"

"In fact, she might have told him she’s on the pill."

"I don’t get it," I said.

"Knowing it’s dangerous is what gets her going. But if he knew that, he might get awkward about it."

"Well duh. Phil’s not trying to make any babies."

"She likes him, apparently a lot. But she likes dangerous sex more. It’s complicated."

"Women are complicated."

"Am I?"

"I take the fifth," I said.

She rolled in the tub to kiss me, and then rolled back to her original position.

We talked about other things, then. She said I couldn’t tell Phil what was going on, and I agreed to keep mum about it.

When we went to bed, she propped a pillow under her butt, and more under her back. It looked uncomfortable, but she said it wasn’t. Then she had me stand on my knees and come forward until she could reach the tip of my cock with her hand. She pulled it to split her lips and told me to go in, but only very slowly. By very slowly, I mean about the pace a snail makes on a lazy day.

It was agonizing. I could clearly see her pussy swallow my cock. I could feel it, too, but it wasn’t hot-all-at-once, like before. I just eased into her, pushing only when she said, "Okay, a little more now." When it was fully inside her, my balls pressed gently on her ass cheeks. It was weird, because I could see her clit, poking out at the top of her slit, right above my penis. She reached to massage it.

"Now don’t move," she said. "I’m going to show you something."

She got this intent look on her face, and I felt something grip my cock. I stared, but I couldn’t see anything. Then it released, and gripped again. She explained about kegel muscles, and kept using them on me, until it started to feel like a hand, stroking me.

"Now, pull out slowly," she said. "Really slowly."

I did, and it felt like something was trying to hold me inside her.

"Wow," I said.

"Your father taught me to do this so I could sit on his lap at the back of the team bus, during away trips, and he could shoot in me without anybody knowing we were fucking," she said.

"I can see why it would work," I breathed.

"Do you want to cum in me, Bobby?"

"I can wait for you," I said.

"Do you want to cum in me?" she asked.

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then you may," she said. "I wanted to do this so you weren’t too excited, so you could think about it as it happens."

"If you keep that up, it’s going to happen pretty soon," I panted.

She did keep going. The small of my back started to ache and I put my hands on her knees, which made perfect hand rests.

"Tell me before you shoot," she said, softly.

"I’m close," I rasped.

"Come here."

She had me lean over her, which put me deep inside her and she pulled my face above hers.

"Whenever you do this with a woman, Bobby, just remember that when you cum in her, you could be impregnating her."

"I don’t want to do this with other women," I said.

"You have to, sooner or later," she said. "I love what we do, but it can’t last forever. You know that. You need to go on dates with regular women."

"We’ll see," I said.

"Just understand that you can become a father when you do this," she said.

"Not with you," I panted.

"Why not with me?" she responded.

"Because you’re on the pill," I gasped.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" she said.

"You’re not?"

"I never have been. Why would I need it? I don’t do this with men."

"You do it with me."

"That’s different. You love me. You won’t leave me."

"You mean …?" I gasped.

"I mean, if you cum in me, you could get me pregnant, Bobby, just like your father did. You need to remember that."

"But I want to cum!" I whined.

She pulled my face down in front of hers.

"Then cum," she whispered.

I got it, then. My father had gotten her pregnant without her consent, just like he’d had sex with her without her consent, that first time. But she did consent to having sex with me. And now … she was consenting to being impregnated, too!

It wasn’t normal, not by society’s standards. But it let her do what she’d never been able to do prior to this. It let her decide she was going to have a baby, and who she was going to have it with. Her phobias, her aversion to choosing a more acceptable mate, kept her from doing things that our culture would embrace. But all she cared about was finally having - and exercising - her right to choose.

"Ohhhh Mom," I groaned, as I let loose. I pumped streams of dangerous spunk into her belly.

"Yes, Baby," she moaned. "Give it to me."

Later, as we cuddled and I tried to catch my breath, I expressed my amazement.

"I understand Maureen," she said. "Your father used to tell me he was trying to get me pregnant. I didn’t really believe him. I thought it was trash talk, like you o to the opposing team. I was foolish. I didn’t know much about sex and I thought you had to want to get pregnant before it could happen. But I loved it that he wanted to make a baby with me. I thought he’d marry me and we’d be happy ever after."

"And you think Maureen feels that way?"

"No. She wanted children with her husband but it never happened. Then she threw him out, but the desire to have a family never left. Like me, though, she doesn’t trust men, or at least hasn’t met one she trusts enough to make that kind of long-term commitment with. But the dangerous sex lets her dream and fantasize about it."

"And you?"

"It’s different with me. I love you. If I had your baby, I’d love your baby just like I loved you."

"You can’t have my baby, Mom. You’re my mom!"

"I know. I’m not going on the pill, though."

"Mom!"

"You don’t have to make love to me," she said.

"Now that’s not fair," I groaned. "Don’t go to the nuclear option on me."

"I’m not going nuclear on you. If you don’t want me to get pregnant, then you need to talk to me and find out when it’s too dangerous to have sex."

"When is it too dangerous to have sex?" I asked.

"Well, tonight isn’t the best time in the world," she said.

"What?"

"I don’t think I’m ovulating yet, but I probably will be in a day or two."

"Damn," I groaned.

"You knew that before you shot your sperm in me a few minutes ago, Darling."

"I didn’t know you were …" I didn’t know the right word.

"Ripe?"

"Yeah, ripe," I said.

"I’m pretty ripe tonight, Bobby. But it’s a Friday night. What can I do?"

My mind was whirling. This was crazy … insane! I couldn’t get my mother pregnant. It just isn’t done. I thought back to what it felt like to cum in her knowing she wasn’t on the pill. That had been crazy, too. But I hadn’t actually thought it was dangerous. Now I knew it was.

I lay there, trying to imagine her flat belly bulging with a baby I was responsible for, that I had made in her.

"Do you want to have a baby?" I asked.

"I don’t want to," she said, "but I’m not going to do anything to avoid it, either."

"I don’t get that," I groaned.

"When I was pregnant with you, I was unhappy," she said. "I hated it. I cried all the time. I felt miserable. I hated Rodney and I hated life. I hated labor and I hated pushing. But then they laid you on my chest, and everything changed. You were so beautiful. You stole my heart in one second. After that, I didn’t complain about anything. I did everything my parents told me to do and I learned how to take care of you. You gave me a reason to keep living, and make my life better."

"Wow," I said.

"So now, here I am, in bed with a man I love, a man who won’t run off and leave me. I mean I know you’ll graduate and get a job and live somewhere else, but you’ll always love me and I’ll always love you. And if I got pregnant by this man, I know I’d love being pregnant. It would be completely different. It would be positive, instead of negative. And if you claimed my womb, then I could finally tell Rodney - in my head, of course - that he lost out, that he couldn’t have me anymore, that my womb now belonged to another man, and that another man’s baby would suckle at my nipples."

She kissed me.

"I know it’s silly. It would be stupid to let you do that, but the idea of it doesn’t bother me at all."

The crazy thing was that, the way she described it, it didn’t bother me at all, either.

I couldn’t beat his ass … but I could take away the womb he had claimed. I could make it mine, instead of his. I could steal away the best looking woman he’d ever had, and make her mine.

This is why, when I got hard again, I rolled on top of her.

Ten minutes later I looked her right in the eyes when I groaned and shot off in her again.

Chapter Six

It sounds simple, but it wasn’t. It was, in fact, quite complicated.

She let me inseminate her, but she also calculated the odds. I think she felt pretty sure nothing would happen because of it. Her periods were pretty regular and she knew her cycle well. That might be part of why she still insisted that only on Friday nights would we engage in fully incestuous behavior.

The thing about menstrual cycles, though, is that even if they’re regular, they don’t all operate on a 28 day time frame, which means that a Friday night two or three days from ovulation in one cycle, can turn into a Friday night when she is in the middle of ovulation in another cycle.

By the time that happened, we were seasoned lovers. I had no problem restricting sex to one night a week. This might be because we started masturbating together a lot more frequently than that. That started one night when I got home from school and found a meatloaf in the oven on low and a note that said she was taking a bath and instructed me to open a can of carrots and put some potatoes in the microwave.

Instead, I went to the bathroom, tapped on the door, and went in.

"What are you doing?" she asked, making no attempt to cover up.

"I just wanted to see you," I said. "I love seeing you like this."

"Poor, horny Bobby," she teased.

So I undid my jeans and pushed them down and started beating off. She complained but I ignored her, telling her what I wished I was doing. Pretty soon the water was making waves as she rubbed with me. I grabbed a handful of toilet paper, but she told me to shoot in the water. When I did she scooped up the blobs and spread them on her breasts like it was some exotic body lotion.

The next night we were watching singers on The Voice and she started rubbing her clit under her robe. Remember the short silk kimono thing? When she spread her legs, I could see she didn’t have on panties. She kept glancing at me. Finally, I exposed myself and started doing it with her.

That led to more intentional types of exchanges, eventually ending up with us in bed, next to each other. One night she wanted to taste me when I came. I was only too glad to let her and she sucked me dry. So I sucked her clit in return.

After that there was a lot of mutual masturbation. It’s really cool to watch your lover get closer and closer to an orgasm, without your own mind being clouded by the race to reach your own. I loved watching her hips lurch and her face go all wonky as my fingers brought her to a climax.

But we both resisted fucking, unless it was a Friday night.

* * *

I don’t know why both of us ignored the fact that we were bucking the system, and that it couldn’t go on without somebody finding out. I know that sounds really silly, considering the fact that my entire fire science class knew about "her" and that she was my girlfriend. But they all knew her as Jennifer Hart. And think about it. Think about anybody you know at work, whose spouse or significant other you’ve seen somewhere. Maybe you’ve all been to the company Christmas party or something. What do you really know about that spouse or significant other?

Not a ton, most likely. So it’s actually possible, in fact, that the lovely couple you see with two adorable little tykes, grew up together because they are actually brother and sister. How would you know, if they haven’t said something about that? I guess you’d know if you also grew up with them, but if they moved away from home, two or three states away, so they could be in love together, it’s unlikely anyone who knew them would be there. And anybody can make up a story about How did you two meet?

It was different in our case, though, because in our case, the subterfuge was that Jennifer Hart, obviously a cougar, had taken up with one Robert Dean Jenkins. The problem was, a whole lot of people in town other than the fire science crowd knew her as Jennifer Jenkins. More than a few of those people knew I was her son. And one of those people was Maureen Gaskill.

That first night, when she and my mother wreaked havoc at Kelsey’s, she saw my mother in the crowd, being approached by lots of men. She saw me dancing with her, but nobody who suspected I was banging this gorgeous nude model said anything to Maureen about it. Why would they? Sure, they whispered among themselves, but they were a tight-knit group and she wasn’t part of the group. Not yet.

As far as Maureen Gaskill was concerned, I hadn’t known who the model would be and the model hadn’t known her son was going to be in art lab. It was a humorous situation, that both were handling pretty well. The fact that we went places together wasn’t odd, to Maureen. She thought it was sweet that I danced with my mom.

The problem was that Phil, who was hopelessly smitten with her, got under her skin, too. It wasn’t just that he was an ardent and tireless lover. Well, that was a lot of it. She’d played the field with a vengeance after her divorce, never wanting for attention or companionship. But she just couldn’t trust or open up to the men she met. Nothing progressed past a few nights together, and many of those were uncomfortable for her. If she was at his place, she was helpless and dependent on him. If he was at her place, she had to get rid of him, sooner or later.

The only real plus, for her, was the incredibly powerful feelings she got from unsafe sex. She didn’t understand it. It hadn’t been that way with her ex. They’d been married three years when he screwed the pooch, so to speak, and their sex had already become routine. He was the vice president of a bank, and she was already the successful owner of a posh art gallery. They met there, in fact, when he attended an exhibition. She was busy with that, and he was busy being impressive and important. When she reasoned that being pregnant wouldn’t adversely affect operations at the gallery, she stopped taking her birth control pills. Even then, the sex seemed to be about doing a job, the job of impregnating her, rather than an enthusiastic expression of love between two people in an attempt to create life.

And then he cheated on her.

When she told my mom she was looking for a boy toy, she wasn’t lying. She’d decided to try that once, because dating men her own age wasn’t working out. She knew it was because of her own issues. There was (probably) nothing wrong with the men. She could probably get past those issues. But that would be work, work that could take years … and therapy, perhaps … and she just wanted to get her rocks off.

She’d always been good looking. She’d always had a talent for art. She’d done her own figure studies as a student. That was part of the problem with men her age. Most of them had let things go once they entered a career path. They were on the ladder, but not climbing fast enough for it to keep them fit. Seeing them naked didn’t generate any awe or appreciation in her artist’s eyes. She didn’t actually think about it that way. It just happened. Or didn’t happen, as it were.

Phil wasn’t what she expected. She hadn’t actually gone to Kelsey’s with the intent to take Phil home with her. She went to have fun, and because doing something like that might generate possibilities. Sitting at home would not. And she went because she thought Jennifer needed to get out and loosen up. She’d met my mother when she bought the building that would become her gallery. They’d known each other for years, but mostly on a professional level. They had drinks together, now and then, and worked out at the same gym. Maureen knew I existed, but hadn’t ever met me until I showed up at art lab. She noted the fact that I had the same last name as her model, but thought that was mere coincidence.

My mother’s concern about violating the rules was what outed me as her son to Maureen. The fee for posing was considerable, and my mom’s cash flow was always iffy. When Maureen suggested posing, it was because of my mother’s looks. It took some convincing – okay, a lot of convincing - but my mother was also bored and in need of something to shake things up. And it was harmless, right? After all she did have to sign an agreement not to have any kind of relationship with any of the students in the class. And that included giving any of them any information about how to find her after the class was finished. She didn’t want Maureen to find out some other way and sever their relationship. She hoped to do more posing in the future.

So she told Maureen about the extent of the coincidence, and that neither of us knew about it in advance.

Maureen couldn’t have cared less about the relationship. The agreements she had models sign were to avoid liability, should unhappy things develop. It was her idea, in fact, for Jennifer to change her last name when they went to Kelsey’s … to avoid embarrassment on my part. What young man would be both comfortable and happy with the fact that his mother took her clothes off in front of strangers? And how much grief would his friends give him if they found out about it?

Phil was bitten by the love bug early and often, that night. His attention to her was practically ridiculous. She thought he was cute. And then she danced a slow song with him and felt just how much she had affected him. All it took was a little push with her loins to find out that the rumor about his size might actually be true.

His cuteness, supplemented by her curiosity about what it might be like to be with a "big" man - she’d never had a man who was other than “average” in her opinion - was what led to her taking him home that night.

Phil was big. It happens. Proof is available because those guys get hired by the porn industry. In Phil’s case, when he was fully erect, from his balls to the tip of his circumcised penis measured eight and a half inches. The circumference was six and a quarter inches. That sounds like a lot, but it’s really only about double the circumference of a normal guy, like me. It was big enough, however, that it caused him problems in his dating life. He liked to brag about the number of women he’d balled, but he was lying about most of it. He’d gotten in exactly three women before Maureen Gaskill, and one of them had been a hooker.

It took Phil, in fact, fully five minutes to get his cock all the way into Maureen. When her body adapted, though, she was in nirvana. He was a novice, and putty in her hands. She molded him into exactly the lover she was looking for, as if he was a lump of clay. That he was clearly appreciative of the fact that a stellarly good looking woman even gave him the time of day, was clear.

It didn’t hurt that Phil was a good guy, in terms of his general moral stance. Like most of us, he chose fire science because he wanted to help people, to serve.

And he was clearly gaga over Maureen. It’s difficult for a woman to resist a man who’s crazy about her, if he doesn’t have a lot of flaws of his own.

So Phil got under her skin. She didn’t have the two or three night fling she originally fantasized about. She ended up in a somewhat strange, but strangely satisfying, relationship with a man sixteen years younger than herself.

And the sex was incredible. It wasn’t just that he filled her so completely. That alone was something she grew to crave. But every time that monster went off in her, and she felt the heat and strength of his seed fill her to overflowing, the concept that he might be overwhelming the defenses of one of her eggs brought on an orgasm that had nothing to do with physical stimulation of her sexual organ.

Of course later, in the clear light of day, the idea of a twenty-year old boy actually impregnating her was less joyful, hence her decision to restrict his access when she was fully ripe.

But she couldn’t resist letting him "try" at other times.

All this I learned much later, but the importance of the telling is why I learned it.

Basically, Phil told his older lover that he thought it was pretty incredible that two of his class had stumbled into relationships where they got to have sex with hot, older women.

"Who’s the other one?" she asked, letting her fingers drift across the muscled chest that always made her pussy get wet when she saw him shirtless. That was the other thing that set Phil apart from men her own age. Phil was buff in the extreme. Her artist’s eye loved to gaze upon him.

"Bob, of course," he said.

"Bob … Jenkins?" she asked, her voice suddenly tense.

"Yeah. He’s banging Jennifer long, deep and continuous." My friend grinned, bragging on my behalf.

"How do you know that? asked Maureen. "Did he say something?"

"No. He wouldn’t do that, just like I’d never say anything about you and me."

"So how do you know?"

"You’ve seen them at Kelsey’s," said Phil. "They dance close, and his hands kind of wander around on her back. And the way they look at each other is pretty obvious, too. Plus he never asks anybody else out. It’s obvious. You don’t see it? Everybody else does."

"I suppose I never looked," she said. That was true. After that first night she didn’t keep an eye on her friend when they went to the bar. Also, it never would have occurred to her to look for sexual behavior between a mother and son.

She did look after that. She watched us during art lab, and she saw things she’d missed before. Afterwards, while my mom was getting dressed, Maureen said she needed to talk to her.

"What about?" asked my mother.

"It’s complicated. It may take some time. You don’t have anywhere to go … do you?"

"I was going to meet someone, but I can put it off," said Mom.

"Meet someone," Maureen repeated. "Do you have a date?"

"It’s nothing like that," said Mom. "Like I said, I can see him later."

"Would that him be … Bob?"

Something in her voice made the hairs stand up on the back of my mother’s neck.

"What?"

Maureen wasn’t one to sugar-coat things.

"Are you having sex with Bob?"

"Maureen!" gasped my mother. "Why would you ask me something like that?" Obviously, Mom tried to deflect. I don’t know if it was convincing or not, because I wasn’t there. I just heard about it later.

"Because his classmates believe it’s true."

I waited by the front door a long time that night. I was alone. Phil didn’t wait for her after art lab anymore. Now, if they were getting together, he just went to her house.

I began to get worried that something was wrong, and finally they showed up. It was obvious my mother had been crying.

"What’s wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," said Maureen. "It’s a girl thing. She and I need some more time to work it out. Why don’t you go on home."

"Are you okay?" I asked, ignoring Mrs. Gaskill. I leaned in.

"I think so," she whispered.

"She’ll be fine," said Maureen. "She just needs to talk."

"You’re sure?" I asked, looking at my mom.

She nodded, but I wasn’t convinced.

"I could go with you," I suggested.

"Bob, part of what we’re going to talk about is you," said Maureen, bringing out the big guns. "Go home. I’ll take care of her. Things will be fine."

"What about me?" I asked, stubbornly.

Like I said, Maureen didn’t beat around the bush.

"Among other things, the fact that your classmates all seem to think that Bob and Phil both got lucky with older women."

She glared at me. She was actually pretty tactful, considering the fact that my mother had already spilled the beans. My mother was caught in a venn diagram of sorts. In the two circles of her life, there were those who knew I was her son. Then there were those who thought I was her lover. Until now, the only intersection of those circles included Jennifer Hart and Bob Jenkins. Now it included Maureen Gaskill. I guess the pressure of convention had made it impossible to avoid the catharsis of confession to her friend. What they were going to do now was go flesh out all the details and see if the situation could be saved. It turned out that Maureen Gaskill wasn’t bound by convention, either. I should have had a clue about that based on her willingness to flout convention with Phil, but I had other things on my mind, I guess.

"Oh," I said, as I felt the planet drop out from beneath my feet. It must have shown on my face.

"It isn’t the end of the world, Bob," said Maureen. "We just need to talk about it … you know … make plans?"

"Plans?"

I guess it was obvious I was stuck on things like a leech. Maureen really didn’t want me along. She figured things would be difficult/emotional enough with just the two of them, and all I’d do was muck things up.

"Do you love your mother, Bob?" she asked.

"Of course," I said, instantly.

"Do you trust me?"

"I guess so," I said, a little reluctance in my voice.

"Then trust that everything will be fine," she said. "There aren’t actual problems yet, but there is the potential for big ones. She and I need to plan to avoid that. We’ll bring you into it when the time is right. Can you trust that?"

I don’t know why, but at that particular moment I suddenly trusted Maureen Gaskill a lot.

"Okay," I said.

"Just go home and wait."

"Okay," I said again.

"And don’t worry."

"Right," I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

* * *

Her eyes were fine when she came in the house. I was in the kitchen. She looked tired, but not devastated.

"It’s going to be okay," she said. "We need to talk."

"You think?" I asked, a little testily. I’d been on pins and needles all night and it was pretty close to one in the morning.

"She’s not going to tell anyone."

"Start at the beginning," I said.

"In bed," she said.

"Really?" I was astonished.

"Really," she said.

We stayed up all night talking.

I heard about the things I listed above, like the stuff between Maureen and Phil. I learned a lot about my mother I hadn’t known before.

And, of course, I heard about the plan they concocted to make things not blow up.

I thought it was the stupidest plan I ever heard.

Why?

Well, for starters, because I was supposed to tell Phil … and my entire class … that Jennifer Hart was actually Jennifer Jenkins … my mother.

Yup. I was supposed to tell all those people who thought I was sleeping with Jennifer that the one-time babysitter they thought I was sleeping with was my own mother.

* * *

As it turned out, it wasn’t as stupid as it sounded to me at first. Basically, the way Maureen thought about it was this: We could be embarrassed about my mother posing nude, and people finding out about it … or we could be embarrassed about people finding out I was fucking my mother.

The first of those could be engineered by me admitting that the woman posing was my mom, and that I hadn’t known about it beforehand. The arrival of the three stooges that first night was what caused things to go off rail, and for my mom to adopt a fake last name, in an effort to spare me the embarrassment. Since Mrs. Gaskill hadn’t known about it - only me and my mother - her urging of Jennifer to go out and loosen up had just made things worse. One thing led to another and people started to get the wrong idea about us. If everybody’s attention was on this engineered outcome, then it would deflect attention away from the indicators that there was a sexual relationship there.

You see the beauty of this plan. It had the genius of my mother saying she used to take care of me and change my diapers. It was true, technically. Well mostly true. She was my mother, not my babysitter, but it was plausible. Embarrassing, but plausible. The fact that I wasn’t dating anybody could be chalked up to any number of things. After all, I was going to graduate and move away somewhere to find a job. Why get involved with a girl and maybe get attached, only to have to end it? That was plausible, too.

The down side was that it was going to be embarrassing - in spades.

But Maureen was right. Plan A was much less embarrassing than plan B.

It was about three-thirty in the morning when my mother finally said, "So what do you think?"

I didn’t have to think all that hard. I sure didn’t have a better idea.

"I think I’m going to be awarded a new nickname," I said. "I bet people start calling me Mamma’s Boy."

"I wouldn’t mind that," she said. "You are my little boy."

I shot her a look. She shrugged. "Mamma’s little man?" she teased.

"It’s not funny," I said.

"I know." She was serious now. "You’re so much more than that," she said, rolling toward me to kiss my chest. "Nothing has to change with us, Bobby."

"Everything’s going to change," I said. "I’ll be the talk of the town. You, too. Can your reputation stand it? Real estate agent poses nude! Will your broker cause any problems?"

"My broker would pay big money to see me naked," she said. "He’s not obvious about it, but he ogles me when he thinks I’m not looking."

"Every man you meet probably does that," I said.

"I know," she said. "I don’t mind when it’s you, though. They can’t have me. You can. It might generate a little unwanted attention, but I doubt anybody will schedule an appointment with me just to drag that out and proposition me. I’ll have to be careful, but I’m always careful about being alone with a man."

"Good. I want you to be very careful," I warned.

"I don’t have to be careful with you," she said.

"We’re in bed, naked," I reminded her.

"And we’ve been here, like this, for hours! When are you going to do something about it?" she complained.

Ten minutes later I was lunging into her, shaking both her and the bed. The knowledge that this hadn’t been taken away from me made it all the sweeter. My penis, sliding deep into her, felt like it fit perfectly, like a hand into a glove.

"This is the first time we’ve done this when someone else knew about it," she panted.

"How do you feel about that?" I asked.

"Kinky?"

"Now you’re finally feeling kinky?" I panted, going in deep and rubbing her clit.

"I’ve never thought what we had was kinky!" she gasped.

"You gonna cum for your little man?" I asked, still rubbing.

"You don’t feel little now," she groaned.

I shut up then and wrenched an orgasm from her.

Right in the middle of hers, I let go and hosed her as hard as I could.

* * *

It was actually easier than I thought it would be.

I took Phil aside one day and said, "Dude, I just heard a rumor that I’m fucking Jennifer."

He just grinned.

"That has to stop!" I said, acting upset. Actually, not much acting was required. I was all jazzed up on adrenaline, worried about how this would turn out.

"Why? Be proud, man. I’m proud that Maureen let’s me do her."

"You don’t understand. She was just trying not to embarrass me."

"Who?"

I swallowed.

"My mother."

"Your mother? What’s she got to do with any of this?"

"Remember the first night you saw her, when you and Don and Jerry were together?"

"Of course," he said.

"She introduced herself as Jennifer Hart because she knew what would happen if you three found out she was Jennifer Jenkins."

"Jenkins?" His brow wrinkled. "That’s your name."

I stood there and let him work it out. His eyes got wide and his jaw sagged.

"She’s your mother?!"

"Yes, which is exactly why I’m not banging her," I hissed.

"Oh fuck, man," he said, his eyes still wild. "I told people you were."

"So it was you," I growled.

"Well, what was I supposed to think?" he said.

"You were supposed to think my mother wasn’t posing nude in art lab," I said.

"How embarrassing," he sighed.

"Gee, why didn’t I think of that?" I yelled.

"I’m sorry!" he said. "We can fix this."

"How?"

"We just tell people what happened. It will be a hoot."

"A hoot? A hoot for who?" I barked.

"Okay, it will be rough on you for a while, but eventually people will laugh about it. This is one of those stories that doesn’t seem funny right now, but when you tell your grandkids about it, it will be hilarious."

"And it will be hilarious to everybody else right now," I growled.

"True," he said, smiling now. "Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it."

"You took care of it the first time!" I said. "That’s why I’m in this fix."

"No, you’re in this fix because your mom decided to pose naked for an art class." He blinked. "Fuck, man. I need to take art next semester."

"There won’t be a next semester for you, unless you don’t graduate with the rest of us in May."

"I could blow the final and be here next year," he said, grinning.

"You do and I’ll kick your fucking ass," I said.

He grinned wider. "That must be hard on you, being there and seeing all those people staring at her like that."

"It wasn’t easy," I admitted.

"But you stayed anyway."

"As I recall, you also got interested in the teacher."

He blinked.

"Maureen? She’s mine, dude. Hands off."

"I know that now," I said. "But I hoped I’d have a shot eventually. To do that I had to stay in the class."

"Oh," he said. "I get it."

"So … if I let you try to fix this, how would you go about it?"

Phil and Maureen thought alike. It was one reason they fit together so well, and one reason they would eventually get married.

"I’ll just laugh at you," he said.

"Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean. I’ll start a rumor about how you have been trying to keep it a secret that your mom got a job posing nude, and that things went sideways, making people think you were her boyfriend. Like I’m Maureen’s boyfriend."

"A rumor."

"Yeah. You know how rumors spread. Give it 24 hours and nobody will think you’re banging your mom anymore."

"I’m not banging my mom!" I yelled.

"I know that now," he said, trying to mollify me. "Everybody else will too. Trust me."

Chapter Seven

The reason I let Phil unmask me is simple. Say that somehow a rumor got started that that babe Bob kept running around with was actually his mother, but that was all. If somebody then braced me about that it would go something like this:

"Hey, I heard something interesting. I heard that your cougar girlfriend is actually your mother."

"Well, she is, but she’s not my girlfriend."

"So you’re not fucking her?"

"Of course not. We were just trying to hide the fact that she’s my mom, and that she posed naked for the art class."

In my experience, about fifty percent of people would believe my denial. Another twenty-five would not, and the remainder would wonder about it.

On the other hand, if Phil described doing that, it might be presented in a whole different kind of way:

"You’ll never believe what I found out about Bob."

"Yeah? What?"

"Get this. You know that babe he’s been going out with? Jennifer? She’s actually his mother!"

"What?"

"Yes! I found out when I was reading the paper the other day and saw an ad about a real estate company. It had her picture and said her name was Jennifer Jenkins. She sells real estate!"

"No fucking way!"

"So I hit him with it. Showed him the paper and everything. I asked him what it was like to bang his own mother."

"Fuck, dude."

"You should have seen his face. I thought he was going to have a stroke. He about shit his pants."

"So he is banging his mother?"

"Fuck no, man. Don’t be ridiculous. They got all embarrassed because she decided to pose nude for that art class, and he didn’t know about it and signed up for the class. Can you imagine it? Of course he didn’t want anybody to know she was doing that, so he convinced her and Maureen to pretend her last name was Hart."

"That was stupid."

"I know. Sooner or later somebody would find out, just like I did. And by doing that, they let people think she was dating him. Everybody knows he lives with his mom at home. Well, that’s why they always left together. He was just going home to live with Mommy!"

"Fuck, that’s hilarious."

"I know!"

Presto, because Phil believes it, others will believe it, too. It’s not me defending myself, which people can suspect is for self interest. Phil has no reason to lie about it, and no agenda, other than to embarrass me. That agenda is well understood among people like that, who form tight bonds. One of the ways you form a tight bond is making fun of each other, and then not letting that bother the relationship.

And it worked pretty well, except for a couple of people who looked to me like they weren’t so sure about this whole thing.

But nobody made any waves and, other than getting a lot of ribbing about it, things settled down. My mother was pretty embarrassed too, whether on my behalf or her own, I wasn’t sure. She didn’t go to Kelsey’s after that. If she and Maureen wanted to go for drinks, they went somewhere else.

Life calmed down for us. She posed on Friday nights and we did have hot, torrid sex after that. But still, during the week, we restricted ourselves to mutual masturbation, or cunnilingus or fellatio.

We were only two weeks shy of graduation when all of California seemed to catch fire. Even though we weren’t certified, yet, the whole class got sent to Modesto, which was a staging area for the wildland fire service. Because we weren’t certified, they didn’t send us into the active areas. Instead we got shuttled around to make sure areas that had already burned were fully out. We found hot spots and extinguished them, raked through smoldering piles of this or that, stuff like that. It was dirty, smoky, smelly work, and our living quarters was an Army tent, with no shower facilities. There were port-a-potties around, but that was it. I learned how to take a whore’s bath and wash clothes by hand in a plastic tote. It was baptism by fire, almost literally. The niceties of men and women being crammed together were handled with a sheet, hung up between the guys' cots and the women’s area, where there were four of them. Somebody had run an extension cord for lights, but there was no entertainment. It was difficult for that many people to keep their phones charged, too. Usually that didn’t matter. None of us stayed up late. We were all dog-tired when we finally got back to the tent, and usually fell onto our cots fully dressed.

We stayed a month. It convinced most of us that wildland fire fighting wasn’t our cup of tea. I have a lot of respect for the folks who do that. It was heart-breaking to see where structures had been reduced to ashes and lumps of metal. It was all that was left of people’s lives, and it made us all think of home and appreciate what we had.

When we got back, the college had decided that it didn’t make a lot of sense to re-convene our course of instruction for two weeks. We had to take all the tests, but that wasn’t really a huge difficulty. They gave us time to rest and study, and then gave us a late graduation ceremony after we passed the tests.

My mother didn’t give me any rest at all. She’d worried a lot about me and after I got back, she wanted to spend as much time with me as possible. The night I got back was a Wednesday, and our only-on-Friday-night rule went straight out the wide-open window. We spent most of the night making love. Or would have, if I hadn’t fallen asleep. We slept together Thursday night as well. And Friday night.

While we’d been gone the regular semester had ended, which meant that art lab had also ended for the semester. So Mom wasn’t posing any longer. I got to see a few of the portraits people had done. Some of them were pretty good. Maureen said that five got submitted to the contest, but none of them won a prize. She did get a call from some guy who wanted to know who the model was, because he might have work for her. Maureen said her internal alarms went off and she told the guy she’d find out and call him back. She didn’t intend to actually call him back, and never did.

Mom wasn’t sure about posing again. The next art lab wasn’t going to be a figure study, so she wouldn’t have to make up her mind for quite a while, but Maureen said she’d get hired any time she wanted to.

Mom cried at graduation. I asked her why, but she just pushed me away and told me to go say goodbye to my friends. We were scattering like fall leaves on a windy day. The placement office had worked out for three-quarters of the class and all those guys were off to start a new career. I know of two who, after California, had re-thought the whole firefighter thing and were looking at other options. A fire science degree can be a stepping stone to specialization, such as inspection programs, safety officers, hazardous materials response and all sorts of things. One girl who California had disappointed said she was looking at expanding on our medical training and becoming an EMT.

The placement office hadn’t worked out for me. There had been some starting positions in really small towns available, but not only was the pay low, it was unlikely there was the potential for promotion. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was thinking about going on to get a bachelors in engineering when my mother sold a house to a retired master sergeant in the Army. In the process she mentioned my situation, and he suggested I keep an eye on the Civilian Personnel Office website. He said the fire fighters on military bases were all civilians, and that it looked like a pretty good job.

So I did. I filled out applications. There were a ton of bases on the west coast, but we had worked alongside soldiers who were drafted, like us, to do support work, so I passed those up. I had to take a bunch of tests that had nothing whatsoever to do with fighting fires. I’m told I got lucky, because I got called in for an interview at Fort Leavenworth, in Kansas. I was competing with two other candidates. I don’t know about any luck, but the month I’d spent in California (and the instructor evaluation of my work, that I hadn’t even known was in my school records) spoke volumes, and I’m pretty sure that’s what got me the job.

I had to have a full background check to confirm eligibility to have a security clearance. The clearance for the position was only Secret, which is pretty low, but since I might go into classified areas and see classified stuff, I had to have the clearance. They interviewed my mom and I found out later that two DOD investigators showed up at the law firm and interrogated my biological father. He tried to deny paternity and kick them out of his office, but was warned that if a DNA match proved he was my father, that he could be prosecuted for making false official statements. He was fully aware of this on a professional level, and finally caved and admitted, officially, that he knew he could be my father. Somebody told me years later that the only reason DOD even cared about this was because they didn’t want any dirty little secrets out there, which might be used to bribe or blackmail me.

So I got the job and moved to Leavenworth, which is basically a big suburb of Kansas City, Kansas. It’s an interesting place. The US Army disciplinary barracks (translation: prison) is there, as well as the Army Command and General Staff College. The Foreign Military Studies Office is there, too, which means there are hundreds of foreign nationals from other countries' armed forces running around.

The post was built in 1827, and is the oldest active Army post west of Washington DC. It’s also the oldest permanent settlement in Kansas, so it’s steeped in history. Like it’s where, in 1866, the 10th Cavalry Regiment was formed, consisting of black soldiers led by white officers. You might have heard them called Buffalo Soldiers, which name was awarded by the native Americans they interacted with.

My normal tour of duty was 57 hours a week, on a rotating shift basis. If weekends or holidays fell during a shift, that was just tough cookies. Among my duties were: providing fire protection, rescue operations, hazardous material response, and confined space rescue. The facilities I might encounter had a variety of hazardous potentialities, such as fuel and ammo dumps, burning aircraft (helicopters), chemical storage and the like. I could end up going to a house, an industrial building, a motor pool, or a brush fire.

And for the privilege of doing all this, I got paid $12.57 per hour.

That sounds pretty dismal, but there were some perks. For one, during my fifty-seven hours, all meals were on the house. They gave me all my uniforms and the benefits package was to die for. If there weren’t any emergencies, we could sleep when we needed to and get paid for it. Another plus was that anything over 40 hours was paid at time-and-a-half, unless it was a holiday, which was double-time. Not only that, there was a retirement plan. And I wouldn’t be stuck at twelve-fifty forever. They gave raises every year and I could be promoted into a higher paying position, if an opening happened. It was true I had to maintain an apartment, off post, but that wasn’t so bad. Leavenworth is far enough from Kansas City proper that the cost of living is quite a bit less, especially if your just looking for four walls and a roof, and don’t care if it’s in a run-down neighborhood.

Besides, it gave Mom a place to stay when she came to visit.

When she did that we rarely went out for the first day or two, staying in bed most of the time. But Kansas City offered a lot of entertainment options, so we went places together. We got a few stares, as we walked, hand in hand. But I had grown a beard, which made me look a little older, and she looked younger than she was, so most people took us at face value.

We were lying in bed one night, making out, after I had soaked her with my spend, when I thought of something.

"You can sell real estate anywhere, right?"

"If you’re licensed," she said.

"You could sell real estate here … right?" I said.

She stared at me.

"Bobby, Honey. We’ve been lucky so far. I love what we have. I wouldn’t change what happened for anything. But we can’t make this last forever. And I want grandchildren."

"I can’t help it," I said. "I love you."

"You can love another woman, too."

"I don’t want to love another woman."

"You need to love another woman," she sighed.

"So you don’t want to keep letting me love you," I said. I admit I was a little petulant about it.

"You know better," she said, poking me with a very sharp fingernail. "But we have to be realistic. We need to be practical."

I decided to kiss her some more, instead of continuing the conversation.

Like a lot of people, I tried to ignore a problem and just hoped it would go away. She was just as addicted to me as I was to her, so she kept coming to visit.

Then one night, while I had her pinned to the bed, she gasped, "You need to pull out tonight. This would be a bad time to get sperm in me."

"You’re fertile?" I panted.

"Very," she huffed.

I think it was then that I went a little crazy.

"Good," I said.

I kept going.

"Bobby!" she whined. She wasn’t stupid.

"I love you," I grunted.

"Then don’t get me pregnant," she groaned.

"But I want to get you pregnant," I growled.

"You can’t," she moaned.

"I’m not sorry," I huffed, speeding up. I could feel it coming and I wanted to get there fast.

"It’s not your body that will swell up and look like a beached whale," she barked.

A little sanity penetrated to my brain. I went in and stopped. The urge to cum slowly abated. I started rubbing. It’s possible I was trying to give her an orgasm as a way of apologizing for what I’d almost done.

"Sorry," I said, leaning down to kiss her. "I got carried away."

"I’m sorry, too," she sighed.

"It’s just that when I think about becoming a father, I can’t imagine it being with anybody other than you," I said.

"That is so wrong," she moaned.

"So, sue me," I said, still rubbing.

We kissed for a while.

Then I felt her internal muscles working on my cock. I lifted my lips from hers and stared into her eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Exercising my kegels," she whispered.

I started going in circles and she writhed under me. But her pussy kept milking me.

"You know what’s going to happen if you keep doing that," I said.

"You talk a lot," she said. "You should kiss more and talk less."

So I kissed her, and she kept milking me, and I’m not stupid, either. I wasn’t going to quiz her on why she changed her mind.

I just let her suck the jizz out of my balls, and into her very fertile pussy.

We never talked about it. Not then, anyway. Instead, we were like honeymooners. I had two days left before I had to go back to work and we spent almost all of it in bed. I came in her half a dozen times.

Then she went home to wait and see if we’d been stupid.

Turns out … we had.

* * *

If you’re in a conventional marriage or relationship, and your significant other has announced she is pregnant, you probably had a conventional reaction. That usually goes one of two ways. You’re either happy about it … or you’re not.

Now try to imagine if your mother comes to visit you, and says, "Well, I’m pregnant."

If you’re in a conventional relationship, meaning you’re not fucking your mother, and know you’re not responsible for her being pregnant, then I guess your reaction could also go one of those two ways.

If you’re me, though, you don’t get to be unhappy about it.

It wouldn’t have mattered. I’d lain awake long hours, wondering about it. We texted each other occasionally, but not on a regular basis. We saved it up for when she came to visit. So I didn’t know whether letting our passions get the better of us had created … difficulties … or not. Eventually I decided "difficulties" wasn’t the right word. And finally I decided that, if she wasn’t pregnant, I was going to keep trying. I know that may sound strange to you, but then you’re probably normal, and don’t lust after your mother.

Then she was there one day when I got off shift, and she hugged me, and stepped back, and said, "I’m pregnant, Bobby."

I was effusive in my appreciation and joy.

I took a shower and found her in my bed, naked, when I got out.

"So what now?" I said, lying down beside her.

"I get fat and ugly and have your baby," she said.

"You could never be ugly," I said.

"You haven’t seen me pregnant," she said.

"I saw you from the inside, and loved every second of it," I quipped.

"We need to keep a close eye on this," she said. "I think lots of ultra sounds will be needed."

"Why?"

"We’re rather closely related," she said, her voice dry.

"Do you think there will be problems?"

"It’s been known to happen in the past," she said.

"Are you worried?"

"Worrying won’t help," she said.

"Are you sorry?" I asked.

"That’s complicated," she said.

"So tell me."

"I’ve never been this happy," she said. "At the same time, I know this is foolish in the extreme. I flip-flop constantly, wanting to sing for joy, and kicking myself for being weak."

"Weak?"

"When I was here last time, the thought that you wanted to breed me just made me go crazy."

"Breed you? That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?"

"No, it’s not. That’s what you did, Bobby. You bred me. Like your father bred me. The only difference is that I didn’t want him to … and I did want you to."

"So then you’re okay?"

"Bobby, Baby, this could be the best thing that ever happened to me, or the worst mistake of my life. But it probably won’t be that black and white. It will probably be shades of gray."

"We have to live together," I said. "You can’t raise another child by yourself. I won’t let you."

"That’s one of those shades of gray," she sighed. "I’d love nothing more than to live with you, but just because you knocked me up doesn’t mean we have a future together as a couple."

"I did not knock you up," I said. "I made a baby inside my lover."

"Potato, potah-to," she said.

"Are you happy right now?" I asked.

She stared at me for a long time. Finally, she nodded.

"Well, you’re happy, and I’m happy. This seems like a situation where someone is looking for a solution to a problem that doesn’t exist."

"We’ll see," she said. "Now, come love me."

I was worried I needed to be careful, that she was delicate.

She climbed on me and rode me hard, making the bed jitter and bounce, showing me she wasn’t delicate at all.

* * *

She told her doctor she knew there had been problems with birth defects in her family history, but not what kind. He scheduled extra sonograms and kept telling her he didn’t see any cause for concern. She took an online course and got licensed in Kansas, and used her realtor’s skills to find a real deal on a house big enough for three. It was a bank repo and the previous owner had taken it badly when they foreclosed. He’d broken all the windows and doors. He was currently doing eighteen months in jail. Insurance had replaced the openings. The interior needed some work, but Mom had time to paint and such.

By the time she moved in permanently, she was five months along, and had a sexy bulge. All I had to do was look at her distended belly and I wanted to re-enact the event that had caused it. She got big, but she was one of those women who carry a baby like a basketball, and didn’t suffer any swelling or some of the other issues that make a woman look like the beached whale she was so concerned about.

She told me that this time was different for her, primarily because she wasn’t depressed or in a constant rage that she was pregnant in the first place.

She did well in the real estate market in the Kansas City area. There were literally thousands of houses and apartments for sale, and thousands of people looking for someplace to live. What made her good at her job was a willingness to listen to what a client wanted, and then put in the work to find it. She made more in commissions in her first three months there than she had in a whole year back in Arizona. She made way more than I did.

We went out on a legal limb by living as husband and wife. I even bought rings for us to wear. I hadn’t listed her on any of my employment forms, and she wasn’t on my insurance, but she made enough that she could pay for her own health insurance plan. She told me she left marital status blank when she got that. I say it was a legal limb, because while Kansas recognized common law marriages, they only did that if the couple was legally eligible to get married in a conventional sense.

My mother was thirty-six when she had her second child. She delivered a girl we named Camilla Jeanette Jenkins, after nobody in particular. They were just names we both liked. Cammi was a hair over seven pounds and eighteen inches long, and perfect in every way.

Well, she cried a lot, but I’m told that’s pretty normal.

It was odd seeing Jennifer breast feed. Those had been my nipples to lovingly suck, and now I came in a distant second place. We had taken to calling each other Bob and Jennifer, respectively, so that we wouldn’t slip up in public. People at the hospital thought I was her husband and treated me that way.

This presented a problem, very much like the one we’d had back in Arizona. Some people knew me as a single guy and some people knew me as a married guy with a kid. If anybody at work found out I was "married" and had a child, it could cause questions. My background investigation didn’t show any such thing. Nor did my CPO application.

So I decided to climb farther out on that legal limb. I did some research about getting married in Kansas. Only one of the participants had to be there in person to apply for a license. Both had to sign a worksheet, but no blood test was required. Basically, once you showed them your identification, they took everything you said at face value.

Three days later I had a marriage license that said Jennifer Ann Jenkins could marry Robert Jackson Jenkins. We didn’t even have to go through a wedding ceremony. The law allows for two people to "become married through their own religious tradition," whatever that entails. Ours entailed staring into each other’s eyes while I said, "Do you want to marry me?" and her responding, "This is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of." I said, "Since you didn’t run screaming from the room, I now pronounce us husband and wife."

I don’t think it sank in that this whole cockamamie thing would work until I took the papers to work and got her listed in my official file as my wife. and Cammi listed as my child.

After that, the only risk we faced was what would happen five years hence, when my security clearance had to be updated. I wasn’t too worried. It was possible that somebody might notice that the woman who had been interviewed as my mother, was now my wife. Then again, I’m told that all they do for an update is check criminal histories since the last clearance was granted. If there’s nothing there, they figure you’re still good to go. I hope so.

I have no idea, of course, what the reader does for a living, but it’s fairly safe to say that, whatever it is, you weren’t doing it one day, and you started doing it the next. If you stuck with it, you finally got to a place where your own self-image altered to the point that it just included your job as part of who you are. It was a little like that with Jennifer and me. Two years after we got married we just felt … married. I could still remember being her son if I thought about it, but for the most part, she was just my lover and mate, my wife and the mother of my little girl. She told me it was a little more difficult than that for her, but that she thought about our original familial relationship less and less as time went on.

When Camilla was two, I asked Jennifer to go off the pill.

She lay there, looking into my eyes.

"You’re kidding."

"You said you wanted grandkids. Plural," I said. "I get it that Cammi isn’t a grandchild, but you’re glad you had her, right?"

"Of course."

"So let’s have another one."

"You want to get me pregnant again," she said, her voice kind of flat.

"Desperately," I said.

"You’re pushing your luck, buster," she said.

"I’m used to it," I said. "I’m barely out of my teens, in the grand scheme of things. I’ve been taking risks for a long time. But look where it got me! I’m crazy happy. With risk, comes reward!"

"Don’t you think I’m getting a little long in the tooth to be popping out another baby?"

I blinked.

"No," I said, after thinking. "You’re healthy as a horse and when he or she is thirty, you’ll only be in your early sixties. You might even still get to have some actual grandchildren."

"You don’t play fair," she said.

I climbed on her. She resisted, but not too much, letting me wiggle my way between her legs. Eventually she reached to put me in her.

"You’re a horrible, beastly man, Bob Jenkins," she said, as I slid in deep. "You want to breed me again."

"I do," I said. "So will you do it?"

"Go off the pill?"

"Yes."

"I can’t," she said, her hips beginning to move.

"Don’t be that way," I cajoled.

She pushed me off of her. I thought she was unhappy until she started tugging and moving me around. She wouldn’t tell me what she was trying to do. She just poked and prodded me into the position she wanted me in. I ended up sitting upright, leaning against the headboard, with her on my lap. facing me. She bent her knees and reached to get me inside her again. Then she told me to bend my knees, which put her in a saddle of sorts, with her feet pointing at the end of the bed.

"I read about this position in a magazine," she said.

I felt her kegels go to work on me.

"I’m basically helpless, if you want to cum in me. I can’t get off."

She rubbed her breasts against my chest.

"What’s going on?" I asked.

"I can’t go off the pill," she said, sounding sad.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I already did, two months ago."

"What?"

"I’m probably ovulating today," she said, sounding sad. "And here I am, stuck with your nasty old penis in me, probably about to spurt. If you do, I’ll probably get pregnant again."

Her kegels were in top form. It felt like what I imagined a calf’s mouth felt like on its mother’s teat.

"The last time you did that, you did get pregnant," I panted.

"Did what?" she asked, innocently. "I’m not doing anything."

Her muscles kept going.

"It’s fine," I said. "You don’t need to worry. I’d never do something so naughty as to get you pregnant. You’re safe with me."

"I am?" she said, in a little girl voice.

Her loins were all grown up, though.

"I won’t cum in you," I panted.

It was time.

"You won’t?"

"Nooooo," I gasped as I jetted thick spunk into her fertile belly.

"Okay," she said, happily. "In that case, I’ll let you do this again."

She did, too. I was almost too tired to go back to work.

* * *

This one will be our last. I don’t want to risk her health by asking her to have another baby after forty.

Instead, I’ll raise our two as best as I can … as normally as I can … so they can give my wife her grandchildren before she’s too old to enjoy them.

And I get to live with and love a drop-dead gorgeous model as I do it.

The End

Content

Lubrican Robert A Model Mother

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven