The Culmination 2

Prelude: Even though I use 'Mom' instead of 'Mum', this story is set in the UK. Also, everyone in this story is over 18. Enjoy!

It begins with me sitting outside of school, waiting for my mom to come get me. Odd, seeing as my mom can't drive. But that's what she said to me: wait at the gate and I'll come pick you up. I didn't think much about that statement, schoolwork and other school related stuff taking up my headspace. But during Geometry I remembered my mom's face. She was smiling – and not smiling like she always does. A glowing smile, one which made her face muscles contort into a shape which expressed her innermost happiness. It really struck me, her smile and how radiant it was. Now, I got no qualms in admitting my mother is an attractive lady. She's an Indian from India (we have to make that distinction for our American friends), has dusky brown skin, beautiful hazel eyes, long jet-black hair, and a figure which makes me blush when I think about it.

Oh yes: I have a genuine hot mom. Nothing really to brag about. 'My mom's hotter than yours' is not something a kid shouts in the playground. I could though, if I wanted to. She was 43 and, shockingly, getting better with the years: still-pert breasts, slim waist, lean legs and an ever-growing bubble butt. Not a large butt, more like the ass Maria Menounos has: a nice round peach. Want more descriptions? My mom's ass is one of those butts that looks good in tight dresses and snug tracksuit pants. Is it creepy that I just put that out there? Yes, very creepy.

Now, before you go thinking what you're thinking, I want to set the record straight: I do not want to have sex with my mother. I admire her beauty, I know she's attractive – but never has the thought of me defiling her ever come into my mind. Why? Because I'm her son. I don't want to stick anything in her vagina! Besides, even IF I wasn't her son, why on earth would she want me? My mother is a highly desirable woman, while I'm a 5'6 110lbs hairless (legal teen) boy.

So I look but I do not want to touch – and I've never sniffed her Ann Summers lace thongs. Not the red one, not the white one, nor the black one which has the bows in the middle. Okay I'm just muddying the waters now. How about I get to my story?

I was outside the gates, in my uniform, waving bye to my people. "Bye, bye," I said in my over-layered Indian/British accent. Having come here when I was 7, my accents have merged into this odd blend. Half of me sounds chavy British while the other half sounds like a bad Indian DJ: booming and way off-pitch.

I did okay in school. I floated in the region which all kids should aspire to be in: the middle. Not being noticed, just having a few buddies and focusing on the school work. Girls can keep ignoring me and growing their boobs; I will play no part in their games because doing my homework and securing my future success is far more important. Yes, in 10 years time, the prettiest girl in school, Laila, will work as my secretary and beg me to drive her home every night. Yeah! Well anyway, I said bye to a few passing friends, waited for around five minutes, and then, from the left I saw this big Mercedes just slide down the road.

"Whoa, look at that motor!" said some guy.

"Fuck, that's a hundred-grand car, man," said another guy.

The car slowed its way down the road. It was coming my way and snaking along to the empty spot which was across from where I was sitting.

I looked at it and thought, "Huh, rich guy."

The car gently hummed while it stayed parked. I'm not really into cars, so I looked past it. Then I heard a mechanical 'ah-hummm', which was the car window rolling down. Just out of curiosity, I took a quick look at the now-exposed person in the passenger seat... and almost fell over when I saw who it was.

"Mom!?"

She had a bright, gentle smile; her hair was tied back and she was wearing this pretty pink dress shirt and these dark trousers. My mom was looking at me from a bazillion-dollar car. I had one question: Why!?

I jumped down and dashed over. "Mom?"

"Get in," she said with a little wave.

No 'hello' or 'how you doing', just a little-too-eager 'get in', as in 'get in and shut the fucked up.' Yes, 'shut the fucked up', which is what she'd say with her thick-yet-somehow-elegant Indian accent.

"Mom?"

She pointed at the backseat of the car. "Go on." It was said with love, but what she was really telling me to do was shut the fuck up and get in the German-made supercar.

Being a good boy, I did what my mother said. I opened the back door and entered inside.

Pause. Big oversight on my part: I failed to notice that this car had someone driving it. I looked forward and got quite the shock when I saw him. Yes, him. A man.

He was a big man. Huge. Big as in tall and wide. Not fat, no way fat, though I'm sure he was triple my bodyweight. His car seat was pushed all the way back, and yet even while seated he still made my mom look so small in comparison.

He turned his head, his short grey hair swishing with the movement of his thick neck. He looked at me with a happy smile, just like Mom's. This 50-something man had dark blue eyes, day-old stubble and a debonair, handsome face.

I was in shocked awe, looking at this big white goliath, seeing his large hands wrapped around half the steering wheel.

My Indian mom was in a car with a big strong white man.

Wait, my Indian mom rides around with big white guys? Big white business guys drive my Indian mom around? Since when? Why did no one tell me my Indian mom is around big white men? Wait, whoa, why am I labelling him as a 'white' man? And I am making it very clear my mom is an Indian woman. Why am I labelling them as 'White' and 'Indian'?

And why do I like this image so much?

"Hello, Son," he said in an upper-crust English accent. "How's school?"

"Fine, sir."

"Oh, 'sir'." He looked at my mom. "You done well with this one, Priya."

She blushed. "Thank you, Trevor."

The way he said her name with his White British accent: "Pre-yah."

The way she said his name with her Indian accent: "Cha-rev-er."

Whoa, I was so into the differences and the way their cultures and them meshed. I loved it, seeing them come together, as friends, riding in a car, man and woman. White Man and Indian Woman.

What the fuck is going on and why is my dick so hard?

Those are the questions I had when I saw my mom blush and giggle while this white man named Trevor (very English name indeed) was smiling at her with a look which suggested more than friendship.

"Shall we go now, dear?" He said to my – hold on, did he just call her 'dear'?

She nodded. "Yes, thank you."

We stayed silent while Trevor navigated around the gawping kids. Yeah, a car, cool; I just got a hard-on from seeing my Indian mom flirt with a white guy. We all got things going on. The car went down at a moderate pace, turning a corner and then going at a faster speed.

"Bellissimo's is very good," he said in an almost-whispery voice.

"I hear it very good," my mum replied with the same tone.

"Got a good reservation."

"Hmm. Was it hard?"

"No, not really: five-pm a good enough time as any. The chef is an old uni' mate."

"Rick?"

"Yes. He's the head chef."

"Ah okay."

They paused their riveting conversation at a roundabout. I tried to wrap my head around this: Okay, my mom might have a boyfriend; a large white man might be her boyfriend. Should I be shocked? Well, she had been single for three years at that point, so how shocking could it be? Well, I didn't know she dated, nor wanted to know because, heck, I'm her son – why would I want to know? But there she was, dating... maybe. I wasn't 100% sure they were a couple. Though I did know one thing: their conversations were very middle-class and very English.

"This car is actually good about the petrol," he said.

"Hmm," she agreed with this astute observation. "It really nice; this leather is soft."

"German manufacturing, always very efficient. Hey, I read they do the parts in different countries." He paused before his next sentence. "That's just globalisation, isn't it?"

"Hmm, you don't know where anything really comes from anymore."

"Yes, absolutely... worrying when it comes to goods, food, drinks."

"Hmm-hmm. Can't trust the labels anymore."

"That is so true." He made another turn. "Bellissimo's is all fresh. I know the chef makes sure of that."

"Quality Standard."

"Right. Yes... he's got the credentials. He's fully certified."

Mom flicked her hand over at Trevor and giggled. "Why didn't you become a cook?"

"Me?" He chuckled. "You know I have butter fingers."

My head was spinning. A blasé conversation followed by my mom flirting – flirting! –, and then Trevor goes and makes a sexually ambiguous statement. What the fuck is going on? I'd gone from thinking my life was normal to seeing my Indian mom make schoolgirl-like arm slaps to this big white guy. What is going on? I looked into the rear-view mirror with this 'what the fuck' look. Trevor saw it.

He talked while driving. "Oh, Son, I'm sorry to not have told you who I am: I'm Trevor and I work with your mum."

"You're my boss," she said with a big grin.

He nodded. "Technically, yes, but I don't like being thought of as 'The Boss': you all work with me, not for me."

"So humble." She rubbed his bicep and smiled again.

He glanced over at her while at the lights. It was just a glance, only lasting a second, but what it said sent shivers down every part of my body: 'I am going to fuck you. Hard'

The eyes, the smile, the gentleness in his face a mask for the fact that he wanted to fuck my mom. This white man wanted to fuck my Indian mom. Whoa. The whole polite English way he talked, that was him, for sure, he looked to be a genuinely nice guy – but this guy was also planning to stick his big white cock inside my Indian mom's... oh my god. Settle down, settle down, and I did. I wiped the sweat from my face, crossed my legs and sat quietly as Mom and Trevor discussed copper piping.

*

We got to the restaurant. We exited the car and I got a full look at Trevor. He was 6'4, 260lbs, and wore a white dress shirt with black trousers. He was a really big white man, for sure; my 5'9 mother just about reached his chest. Yes, she was 5-foot-9, tall for an Indian woman, and both of them were wearing flat shoes, which meant I was seeing an accurate impression of the size difference. Yes, I admit it: I enjoyed seeing my demure, feminine Indian mom walk next to this large white man; I liked the image, the impression and the hints that it gave.

While Trevor was walking alongside my mother, he put his hand on her lower back. I chalked that up to him just being an English gentleman, thinking that's how he was with women... women like my Indian mom. Though I was a few steps behind them, I could swear she was blushing.

Trevor opened the door for her, led her in and kept it open for me. We went in the restaurant and whoa was it a cut above Chicken Cottage. It was one of those restaurants you only see on TV, the ones in which the check-in guy asks for your reservation, signs it in, brings a waiter over and sends you to a table. We sat around the shiny brown dining table, surrounded by men in designer suits, who despite all being of different races still managed to look exactly the same. The women though, they ranged from stunning blonde to super exotic oriental. I looked to be the only teen, and because I was in my school uniform, I looked even goofier in comparison.

Trevor sat in the middle, Mom to the left of him, me to the right. The waiter gave us our menus and we quietly looked through them.

"May I take your order?" asked the waiter.

"Priya?" said Trevor.

"Oh, the salad, please."

"The steak," said Trevor. "And... Ravi, was it?"

Yes: I forgot to tell him (and you) my name. "Yes sir, I'll take this chicken, please."

We got our food and ate it. I got a honey-glazed chicken. It was all right. I tried to focus on the food because, quite frankly, I was very disturbed with how much I enjoyed watching Trevor and my mom. They had the same little chatter about mundane things like insurance, bonds, healthy eating – but they were so into it all. Not the topics per se, but each other. They couldn't stop talking to each other; they just loved listening to one another.

What I found most uncomfortable was seeing what my mom slipped into every sentence: a lick of the lip here, a little treble in her voice there, and occasionally, gently, biting down on her lip. My mom was being a seductress... eww! Gross, seeing my own mother like that, yuck. I mean, what's wrong with her? Does she not know I'm here? Does she not... hold on. She didn't talk to me much in the car, didn't say a word to me in the restaurant. It was here I knew what I was to my own mother: immaterial. I was not even noticed, not at all acknowledged while she pumped her chest up, turned on her savoury glands and gave the 'fuck me' look to her white man boyfriend. My lord, what has happened to my demure Indian mother? And why am I touching myself underneath this table?

Then during dessert...

"I minimise the heating bill by," Trevor was thrilling everyone with his heating system layout, "configuring the setup to – oh!"

He put his two forefingers on my mom's smooth brown cheek, moved his fingers up, held her silky black locks, and tucked them behind her ear.

Oh it just got real.

Mom was blushing a million shades of red. She couldn't muster a response, just a look which showed utter devotion to her white knight.

He smiled and lifted a finger in the air. "Check, please."

The waiter rushed over and Trevor placed his card on the table. The waiter went to make the transaction.

Trevor looked at his watch. "Almost seven. Do we go to my place now?" he said while looking at my mom.

"Yes, please."

Did I get a say in this at all? Of course not. I said, "Okay" and the two of them didn't respond. We're going to his house now? Why and what for? The twinkle in my mom's eye gave me a clue – but no way THAT was going to happen, not with me tagging along. No, we're just going to his house for some tea and biscuits. Tea and biscuits.

We all stood up, and again with his hand on my mom's lower back, we walked out and went into the car.

*

Most of the car ride consisted of more banal discussion between Mom and Trevor, talking about the restaurant, the food, the ambience. How did people talk about such things? It was a restaurant with food and they managed to spin it into a 20-minute conversation.

When we got to a residential neighbourhood, Trevor acknowledged my presence.

"You doing okay back there?" he asked.

"Fine, sir."

"Good, good... Your mother has told me about you, that you do well in school, that you're a good boy who causes no problems."

"I try, sir."

He turned to my mom. "Have a good one there, Priya. Takes after you."

She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. "Thank you." She smiled at him and then looked at me and smiled.

"He's nothing like his father," said Mom, somewhat surprisingly.

"Hmm," replied Trevor. "So he really did avoid paying child support by moving back to India?"

"Yes, afraid he did."

Trevor tisked-tisked and shook his head. "That's... that's just not right." I could actually see his knuckles redden as he gripped the steering wheel.

"The raise really helped," she said.

"It was long overdue," he replied. "You earned it."

Mom worked as a solicitor's assistant, meaning Trevor is a lawyer. A well-paid one, judging by the homes we drove past.

Mom reached her hand over and gripped his bicep. "Thank you." She then looked at me and gave me an expectant look.

"Oh, um, thank you, sir," I said.

"Please, it's my pleasure." He turned the car and nosed into a curb. "Plus, I don't think I'd be able to go into work if I didn't have my spicy Priya."

Mom giggled like a schoolgirl. "Oh, you."

'My spicy Priya'? I'm assuming the 'spicy' refers to her being Indian. Still, the fact that he had a loving nickname for my mom made me feel a little uneasy. Just how close were they? I didn't want to think about it.

I had this tightness in my chest when the car parked outside his house. They exited and I followed. It was a large home for a single man, a two-story old Victorian house.

Trevor opened the door and led Mom in, his hand on her back. He left the door open for me and I followed. He patted me on the head and said, "Welcome home, Son."

The immediate area had two rooms on the left, a kitchen right across and a staircase on the right. The carpet was furry and the decor was modern yet classy. The windows had these circular decals on them – and whoa did he just say 'Welcome home, Son'? He did, and I have reason to believe that it was not a slip of the tongue.

He took his shoes off, and me and Mom also took our shoes off. I took a glance at my mom's feet and immediately popped another boner. No, it was not because I had a foot fetish. It was because she was bare footed in this strong white man's home. Wow, when I put it like that, foot fetish sounds better.

Trevor smiled, put his hand on Mom's upper back and pointed to the room on the left.

"Come on." He waved me in.

The two rooms had been converted into one large room. The dining area was on the left and the lounge area was on the right. My eyes went right to the beige couch and the massive plasma TV that was facing it.

"Sit, please," he said to me.

I took my blazer off and put it on the cushion. I unbuttoned my top button, sat on the couch and just melted into the soft leather. Trevor chuckled. I then looked to my right and saw my mom look up at him with smoky seduction eyes and a wet mouth. She placed her delicate hand on his chest, her red nails sparkling under the lights.

"May I go freshen up?" she said with a purr.

"Please."

His eyes said it all: they'd gone from 'I got a good deal on my car insurance' to 'I want to rip your clothes off.'

Mom turned and went up the stairs. My hard-on got even worse. I crossed my legs and coughed, thinking that would do the trick.

Trevor looked at me and smiled. I smiled back.

"Ravi." He pointed and sat next to me. "We need to talk."

Pause. Here's the part where the subject known as Mom's New Boyfriend (?) would say 'man-to-man.' You know, 'I want to talk to you, man-to-man.' That line makes hard things easier to say and gives off the illusion of respect. Trevor was having none of that. No 'man-to-man' here. I wasn't a man in his eyes.

I nodded when he sat down.

"Now, Son, I know you're a pretty smart kid, and you know what's going on."

"I do." I didn't.

He smiled. "I knew you would."

Now I was seeing the real Trevor. The man that cares about health care and road works, that's him, to an extent. But that's his exterior side. I was seeing the true side, the real him, the interior side. His core.

He suddenly seemed much larger. "I want you to respect our boundaries and understand that while she may be your mother, she's also a woman."

"Yes, sir." I said with a blank face.

"Good." I felt his powerful hand clasp my shoulder. "Now I want you to know that your mother is a very important part of my life, meaning you are also a very important part of my life. I care about how you're doing at home and in school. Okay? I want to know how you're doing because you being on the right path makes your mother happy and I want her to be happy."

"Yes, sir."

"I mean it, I do. Now, I know you're a good kid, but you're a little cheeky, too, right? Your mother tells me you've stayed out late a few times. Am I right?"

I actually felt a little hesitation when answering him. "Umm, just a few."

"No more," he said with a clear firmness. "None of that. Your mother knows she can come to me if you're too much to handle. So if you misbehave, you answer to me."