Notice: no characters are underage in this story.
If you saw a picture of my mother as a young woman, it would remind you of an anime girl, wide eyed and lovely, buttons bursting on a tight white shirt over a pleated skirt, and legs that stretched off the page. But in her smile, you would see that she knew exactly the effect her innocent body was having on you, and even then, she was completely in control.
Fast forward to the woman I know, elegant, stunning, silk blouses or long slitted dresses, black hair piled high exposing that genetically perfect neck, neckline plunging into shapely cleavage, that leg strategically posed outside the slit, tall heels sculpting calves, but the eyes now narrowed like the smile, and anything but inviting. Nothing out of place, nothing free to touch, and impossible to turn away from. And more than ever, in complete control.
If you've pictured a Dragon Lady, uncompromising, authoritative, dominant, demanding obedience, a woman whose mind and beauty have taken her everywhere she wants to go, then you have met my mother.
As you would expect, she was a dominating parent, requiring one single thing - complete obedience. There was never a father in the picture. And I am her only son. And I was the completely obedient son. I would do what she said, when she said it, without question.
By the time I was 21, I had an idea what she did for a living, but I didn't know the details at that time. I knew it involved plenty of jewelry and perfume, a deep wardrobe, perfect hair, makeup, and manicure. I knew it involved a stretch limo pulling up in front of our apartment most evenings. And I knew it kept us very well.
At home, I never had any privacy. My mother was very security-minded, so there were cameras everywhere. Some were obvious and some were not, and she could bring up any view on her phone at any time. I assumed she was always watching. So I had no secrets.
But there was never any facade of external moral restrictions. Which meant that my life was simple - if Mother forbade it, I did not do it. If she had not, I felt no shame.
She never brought any men home. Or women. Never any drama. Never anything unseemly or out of place. On the rare occasion that I would be awake when she returned home, she seemed just as well put together as when she went out. Again, complete control.
But this is a story about my twenty-first birthday.
The limo arrived outside as usual, and I saw it pull up. I could hear her phone ring in her bedroom, and I assumed it was the usual exchange, and she would be heading down in a few moments. It was the ultimate disappointment. She had always found some way to celebrate my birthdays up until now, and I honestly believed she would do something special for this milestone, but she had not mentioned it all day, and I dared not ask. And now it looked like I would spend the rest of it alone.
Then she called my name.
I came to the door of her bedroom. I was not allowed in without her permission, and I was never ever given permission.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Come here," I heard her say from inside the master bathroom.
I came into the bedroom and stood just inside the bathroom door. She was at the mirror, of course, lipstick in hand, finishing touches. If ever she looked more perfect than any other time, it was now.
She put away the lipstick and stared at me, up and down. Assessing me in some new way.
"Happy birthday."
"Thank you," I bowed my head.
"Everything is about to change." She said it as if she were talking about the weather.
"Yes, Mother," still looking down.
"Look at me."
Of course, I looked at her. I tried to only look at her eyes, but she was expertly turned towards me, the cleavage, the leg, the arms. Her look was insistent. I took in all of her.
She was savoring this moment. I was helpless. I felt myself stirring, getting hard. Not so much that she could see it through my jeans, but she knew.
When she was certain that I was completely enthralled by her, she reached up and lifted her right breast out of her silk dress and exposed it to me.
"Do you know what it means when a woman shows you one breast?"
I knew, and she likely knew that I knew, but I wanted her to say it, to make it real, so I said nothing.
"It is her command for the male to masturbate."
She waited.
I had no memory of seeing her nipple before, except as implied through thin material in a blouse or swimsuit. It was stiff and small, darker than the cream of her breast, puffy beneath it. My mouth made its shape. My tongue began to flatten. My body was making its own decisions.
