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My mom and I had always been very close. Even though my parents had split up when I was five and I'd gone to live with my dad, the visits we'd make to her over the years were always exciting and full of joy. My mom is a beautiful woman, always has been. She takes great pride in her appearance and revels in the seemingly constant flow of attention men give her. I don't blame them. She has shoulder length brown hair that alternates from her natural curliness, to pin straight when she's usually going out and wants to look her best. She has olive skin due to her Italian heritage, and piercing eyes that can burn a hole straight through any warm blooded male. Her lips are soft and inviting, and she sports a tongue ring, which she loves to play around with. The clicking sound it makes against her teeth is one of the most sensual sounds in the world. At forty-six, she's a knock out.
She's not that tall. Maybe 5'6, with a petite frame. She'd told me that after she had me, she'd gotten a tit lift. I'd found the medical papers one day in a drawer I probably shouldn't have been looking in. It also contained one thick vibrating dildo that must have been about eight inches long. I was seventeen, and I remember being somewhat shocked at first, but then intrigued. I began to see my mom as more of a sexual being after that. By this time, I'd started high school and was living with her downtown. The commute would have been too long if I'd stayed with my dad in the east end.
I'd come home from school early that day while she was still at work. When I found the papers, curious, I took them to my room to read them through. I'd foolishly left them on my bed and she'd come in and found them. I think my mom's tits are absolutely magnificent. They're about a 34c, and sit proudly atop her chest. The doctors must have done a great job, because they look like they belong to a twenty-two year old. With just a tiny hint of sag, they still possess a very natural and full look. I know she loves to show them off any chance she gets in tight fitting, cleavage bearing tops.
My mom tries to be good about keeping in shape, working out and eating right. There's a certain unmovable confidence she can exude when she's in the right mood. A kind of raw sexuality that's arresting to say the least. I'm twenty-three now, and it never fails to give her a little thrill when someone mistakes us for a couple while we're in public. Which happens often. I used to get embarrassed by it, especially when she would start flirting with whoever made the comment, right in front of me. But I've learned to live with it. I can't stop her from being a gorgeous, alluring sexpot, and why should I? She deserves it. Although it proved to be a tad rough going through high school with a MILF. My friends would never forget to remind me just how hot she is every time they got the chance. It was uncomfortable for me when she'd come to school recitals dressed in very revealing attire, of which she had a closet full of. She has a passion for shoes. High heeled stilettos in particular. Every kind you can think of. Glossy red Jimmy Choo's, six inches high with straps that wrap around her calves so seductively. Tan suede toeless Manolo's, wrapped around her cute little feet. And the way she walks when she's in them. I can't help but get aroused when I hear the clip-clap on the hard wood floor. She completely owns it, and almost never has them off. From her toes right up to her tight little butt, she maintains composure and femininity with a dominant air.
My friends always tried to flirt with her any chance they got, and she'd love it. They still do for that matter. The worst of it though, is that she'd flirt back! I'd be standing with my pals by the lockers after the big show and she'd come walking over like a model on a run way. Her high heels, tight little dress and bound right up to us. She'd usually give me a big smooch on my lips and tell me how proud she was of me, before moving on to the other teenage boys present. She'd comment on how handsome they all looked while she played with that little tongue ring. Laughing at all their stupid jokes, reaching out and touching their shoulders with that radiant smile she possessed, turning them to jelly. The whole time ignoring me and my obvious discomfort with the situation.
I know she wouldn't do it to hurt me, but when we'd get home she'd assess which of my pals had the hots for her, which ones she thought were cute. She wanted to laugh about it together, like friends. She's just like that. But when I'd tell her I didn't want to hear about it and that it made me angry the way they talk about her, she'd tell me not to dictate how she should act around me. That she was a full grown woman and could handle herself however she pleased. She's a very independent woman. She'd sit me down and explain to me that a lot of men find her attractive and that it made her feel good to know she could still be considered hot by someone my age. I'd be cringing the whole conversation, just praying for it to be over. Her perfect tits bouncing and jiggling as she moved, her bare legs crossed with one foot dangling sexily in the air as she spoke. I knew there was truth in what she was saying. I just didn't want to confront it.
She'd always dressed skimpily around the house for as long as I could remember too, but it started to get a little awkward the older I got. An average night would have her in her favorite faded, thin white t-shirt with the title of her favorite club written across it. No bra. Her nipples could be easily seen through the fabric, dark and usually erect. It was fraying around the neck line and around the bottom and had been accidentally torn once so she'd cut a big dip, leaving ample viewing space for the top of her tits and her smooth, flat tummy. She had a huge assortment of panties, all different colors. Some frilly, some dainty, some downright slutty. She had one pair that was more like a thong. It was black and rode up her crack, leaving her full round cheeks on display. There was a red frilly trim and a little gold star sewn into the front patch, which barely hid anything of her obviously shaved pussy.
Part of me wonders wonders how many of my friends have mothers who walk around the house like this. It's impossible not to stare at this sculpted goddess I still live at home with when she's dressed this way. But I question too, how natural it is given the way she turns me on. My mom has a very controlling, some would say self-centered attitude sometimes and she did everything she could to get me to stay with her after high school. I guess I'm an obedient son. I do most of the housework, make a lot of the meals and do a lot for her. She's always complaining about how sore her muscles get and I've become sort of her on call masseuse. Whenever she's done a workout, she expects that I will be there to service her aching body. It's become kind of a routine over the past couple of years. It still makes me feel a bit strange.
Let me explain. It started with her asking me to rub her shoulders every now and then while we'd be watching TV on the couch. That eventually graduated to foot rubs, then calf massages. I would come home from work and she'd be just finished her workout, curled up on the couch waiting for it. You could say she had that feisty, fiery way about her most Italian women have. When I'd tell her I was tired from a long day at work and suggested I give her a rub down later, she would get very irritated and tell me how it's not easy to maintain a figure as good as hers at such an age. That it's hard work keeping her ass looking so young and high. She'd go on in a very bitchy tone about how much she'd gotten hit on that day by some guy my age and that I should be proud to have a hot mom. The least I could do was service her when she needed it. I would submit and she'd lie down on her stomach on the couch, her tits jutting out at either side of her petite frame. Content and happy. I'd begin with the ritual just the way she liked it, each individual toe first. Then the feet themselves, up to her calves, her thighs and then her usually bare ass. I'd made the mistake of refusing to do this part before. She'd tell me how most of the workout was based around her butt and that if I didn't massage it, it would make her very upset.
She eventually insisted I take a course on massage technique for her, so I did. I knew how much these massages meant to her and really I just want to make her happy. She does work hard and I remind myself not to be so selfish. If it makes her feel good, that's all that really matters.
One morning at breakfast, which I'd served to her in bed, I proposed the idea of hosting a party for some of my friends. Her eyes practically lit up.
"A party? Oh, that sounds fun honey," she mused while I worked her toes. Breakfast massages had become a recent favorite of hers.
"Will Mark be coming?" Mark was a good friend of mine, and was very popular at school, especially with girls. If I had to guess I'd say he was the one my mom consistently flirted with the most.
"Yeah, of course," I replied. She clapped her hands quickly together smiling.
"Yay! God, if I was twenty years younger you'd have to literally pry me off that boy." She threw her head back and laughed. Her tits jiggling in that same shirt, nipples jutting out. Her hair was messy and curly and her make-up was smudged from last night's party she'd gone to with her friends.
