My name is Claire, I am 29 years old. You may know me from my previous stories; let me tell you about my latest adventure. A little more than two years have passed since I left you, and I have now fully accepted my sexuality and my needs. And yet, nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to live.
For those who discover me, I am a simple woman with fair hair and brown eyes. For a long time, I had a slim figure with nothing special about me, but in the past few years, I have developed a strong sexual appetite -- or should I say I accepted my sexual nature -- and this led me to find the motivation to build myself a very sexy body. I still look the same, but with a better shape, a lovely firm butt, I also learned how to make a sexy make-up and haircut when I want to look hot. I now want to be proud of my body, and I want to take pleasure in looking at it in a mirror. Pleasure is my leitmotif in life; it is what drives me now, and I can't get enough of it. Whether it's a lonely pleasure or if it's shared with one or more people.
But do not think that I am a complete sex addict and nothing more. I have a life, I have a job, and there are times when sex is not my priority. Just like anyone else, I would say. This story began precisely during one of these periods when I had been working on resolving some professional issues for several weeks, maybe even more than a month. The bookshop where I worked was about to be sold, and no options appeared to me as satisfying regarding its future, and therefore mine. So, I was spending most of my free time seeking various funding and support options, at the expense of my own sex life. I was so dedicated that I barely had time to think about it anyway.
One of these evenings, I was alone at home, when my mother rang at the door. She was in tears. Seeing her like that was a shock to me, as she has always been my role model. To give you an idea of Catherine -- that's her name -- she is a 54-year-old woman, tall, elegant, with very long dark hair. But more than her looks, what always impressed me about her was her mental. She has always been strong-willed, skilled, and well-educated, and she managed a successful career without being aggressive or charming. I was impressed by her since I was a child, I would even say I was intimidated by her. I tried for years to be more like her, but I never succeeded, until one day I stopped trying.
That evening, however, my mother was unrecognizable. She had just left my father after discovering that he had been cheating on her for over a year with a young recruit in the company they had founded together. Not only had she left her husband, but she had also left her own business, her second baby, as she liked to call it. Naturally, I invited my mother in and listened to everything she said. She told me that before coming here, she had already contacted her lawyer to initiate the divorce procedure. We talked for hours; it was a night of bonding and sorrow. I even forgot about my bookshop worries. My mom was in such distress that I had to help her any way I could. What else was I supposed to do when my idol asked me for help?
I invited her to stay at my place as long as she needed, and I quickly realized that it would take quite a bit of time for her to recover. She was completely devastated; she could crumble into tears over nothing, and the rest of the time, it barely seemed like she dared look people in their eyes. The idea of going out was an ordeal for her, even if it was just going to the bakery across the street, and it took her over an hour to prepare and muster the courage to leave the apartment. You can imagine that she spent a long time in bed before she felt ready for anything.
This went on for a few days while I let her grieve over her marriage and lament all that she could. Eventually, it was time for her to move on, or at least that's what I told myself every time I was being rough on my poor mother. I tried to persuade her, I intimidated her, even pushed her around, I did everything I could think of to get her out and see people. In the end, I had more success by suggesting a makeover session. The idea of changing her appearance made her feel as if changing her looks could change her life somehow. That was indeed my intention.
I started by cutting her long hair. I was envisioning the image of these beautiful women from the Roaring Twenties with short hair and a long, slender body. Then I replaced her tears with fairly intense makeup to accentuate her eyes. I applied blush on her cheekbones to emphasize her oblong face, all while adding a bold shade of red to her lips. The result was close to a disaster, as I'm neither a hairstylist nor a makeup artist, but since my mother wasn't going out, it wasn't too important. What mattered was seeing her smile again. At first, I thought she was laughing at my failure; in fact, she was very pleased to see herself as a different woman, a new woman. It was a face she enjoyed staring at. I felt like she was eager to know the woman in the mirror. I was delighted!
After that, she started to want more change, so I offered her a dressing session. I made her try on some dresses from my closet, and once again, it was comical. My mother is taller than I am, more specifically, she has very long legs, and every dress and skirt she tried were far too short for her. In the end, it was not important whether it fitted or not; the important thing was that my mother was having fun. I don't have a very large wardrobe, and I could not show all of it to my mother -- I had a latex outfit and a dress that did not cover anything at all -- so I took her shopping. It was the first time she agreed to go out for more than twenty minutes, but she still asked to make it quick. We rushed during off-peak hours and managed to find her two dresses that she liked. I was quite satisfied with myself; it had taken some time, but I finally had a presentable mom. She was still just as fragile as before, and she hadn't regained any sense of self-confidence, but she agreed to let me take her dancing. Or perhaps I was too insistent and she didn't manage to turn me down.
I took her to a club where I would occasionally go with friends when I just wanted to have fun. I had never done anything naughty there, so I knew we would not have any problems getting in. Also, I had chosen an outfit that generally pleased the bouncers; it was slightly sexy without being vulgar, and it had a large cleavage without being too much. Breasts usually draw attention, but in my case, it was my ass that was most accentuated. My dress fit particularly well around my butt, all while remaining short and light enough for me to dance without constraints. I justified myself to my mother by telling her that I was willing to attract attention so she could stay in my shadow. The truth is that I wanted to be looked at, I hadn't done anything funny in such a long time, and even if I didn't intend to do anything that night, I had to take advantage of whatever I could.
The plan was simply to go dancing, have a few drinks, have fun, and, above all, stick together. Mom had been very clear about that point. And I did just that for two whole hours, never letting her out of my sight and making sure she could always see me when I went to the bar to get our drinks. That night, I was also her bodyguard, systematically sending away the men who came toward us. I even asked the bartender to keep an eye on us and call security if one of them insisted too much. It was really a great evening, my mother seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself while we swayed on the dance floor. The alcohol helped, although I knew it shouldn't be abused, given my mother's condition. But, of course, something had to go wrong, and it happened at the worst possible moment.
The worst moment, of course, was when I had to leave my mother alone to go to the bathroom. I was holding it in for a while, waiting for her to also feel the need so we could go together, but apparently, she had cried so much that even her bladder was empty. I went to the bathroom and locked myself in to wee when I heard noises in the stall to my right. I recognized those sounds; I had made the same noises myself countless times before. I finished urinating first, at that moment I could not have stopped even if I tried, then I crouched down and discovered to my right not a pair of feet but two. In an instant, everything came flooding back to me. My weeks of sexual abstinence were all I could think of as my heart was beating as fast as my groin was itching, in sync with my neighbors. My whole body was screaming for ecstasy.
Naked in my stall, I started to masturbate, following the moves and noises beyond the wall on my right. Then it all stopped, and I heard them whispering.
