I hated this. Mom was dressing to go out for the night and looked sharper than sharp, but I knew what it meant for me. I tried to sneak out but heard her call out.
"Anthony, get in here please," Mom yelled from her bedroom. "I need a little help before I go out for the night."
I knew what it meant, what it always meant. My mom is 52-years-old, but drop- dead gorgeous still, brown hair cut short and stylish, massive boobs above a trim waist, slender but muscular legs kept fit by running five miles a day. Divorced for the last few years, Mom has an insatiable sexual appetite β and feeds it with me every chance she gets, and has ever since I turned 18 a few years ago.
I still live at home at 21, largely because she won't let me leave. Mom can be a very persuasive woman and besides, she has a lot of money from the divorce and takes care of me. But her needs are sometimes more than I can bear.
I walked to her room where she stood before the mirror in a very sexy black dress, slit up the sides. She was putting on her makeup and when she moved, I noticed she wore sheer black nylons held up by garters, and black stiletto shoes. Her get-fucked outfit, she liked to call it. I went inside and stood, head down.
"Anthony, assume the position on the bed, please," she said, dabbing her eyes with liner. "I won't be long, I'm running late, but I need help getting interested for the evening."
Interested meant primed, as in priming her fuck pump. At 21, I was more than enough stud for her, more than any man she'd pick up later in the evening. I work out constantly, am smooth-skinned, muscular β and hung. Just the way mom likes her men. And submissive. Also the way she likes them.
I laid on the bed and slipped off my clothes, my soft cock against my thighs but stirring to semi-hardness as I watched mom gently take off her dress to stand in push-up bra and those nylons. It got to me, it always did.
She peeled off her thong panties and turned to face me, unsmiling, almost businesslike. I knew at least this wouldn't take long.