My Mother the Whore

I was in my local bookshop, browsing the new publications, when I spotted it. A work entitled 'Soho In The '60s'. It was obvious that the subject was the sex industry in the area of London with which that trade is so closely associated. The book's cover featured a glossy black and white photo of a woman in her twenties, a mass of peroxide blonde hair framing a sultry looking face, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. Her heavy, obviously bra-less, breasts bagged her white blouse, and a black leather mini skirt ended halfway down her thighs to reveal black fishnet stockings, her feet clad in white stiletto-heeled shoes.

Having spent a few wild nights in Soho in my distant youth (I'm 38 now), I was mildly interested, and started to leaf through the book. Inside there were several glossy pages of other black and white photos of strip clubs, working girls and so on. One was a close-up on the face of the girl on the cover, grinning at the photographer with big come-on eyes. I turned past it, then literally did a double-take and flicked back to the picture. There was something so familiar about that face. It was difficult to tell, with the face caked in foundation, the eye shadow, mascara and eye liner making her look like a panda, the lips painted into a big bow and, of course, the masses of dyed blonde hair, piled in top of her head in that shot. But...the high cheekbones...the shape of the eyes and nose...the small ears with large lobes...I almost dropped the book in shock -- I was staring at a photo of my mother!

Once I'd recognised her, I didn't know why I hadn't seen it immediately. She was 67 now, but there was no question in my mind that what I was seeing was a younger version of her. I stared at the caption: apparently she had called herself Candy Cumcake. Madly, I flicked to the index of the book. There were several references to her, including one four-page block. My hands shaking, I turned to it. It was an extended interview with Candy, 'a young whore who plies her trade around Meard Street'. She spoke freely of the range of her clientele, her sexual activities, which involved every orifice, on occasions more or less simultaneously, and her involvement with petty gangsters. The prostitute's final words in the interview jangled in my brain: "Ill probably pack this in by the time I'm 30, settle down with some nice bloke and have his kids." I had been born when my mother was 29.

I stood in a state of shock. I'm a well known businessman in the small town where we live. We're only 30 miles from London, and the book was bound to arouse interest. How long would it be before someone who knew my family made the same connection I did? Maybe someone who thought the local press might be interested? Horrified at the prospect, I hurriedly bought a copy of the book and scuttled out of the store. I needed to confront my mother, and find out for certain if it really was her. I drove to my parents' home like a maniac, and screeched to a halt. Then gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white with the pressure I was exerting, I closed my eyes, sat back in my seat, and took a few deep breaths to calm myself.

I let myself into the house and called for my mother. She stepped out of the kitchen with a smile for me, but she must have seen something in my face, because she looked alarmed and said, "Ian, what is it? Has something happened to Lucy?" That was my six-year old daughter, who lived with my estranged wife, only eight miles away from my home, but who I hadn't seen for more than two months. I shook my head and stalked into the lounge, slumping onto the couch. Mum followed me, and I looked her up and down: an elderly woman, with permed and dyed dark brown hair, a face lined with age, a slightly stooped posture, wearing a frumpy brown blouse and black slacks. As she wrung her hands, staring at me with concern, I began to wonder for the first time if maybe I'd made some horrible mistake. I asked her where my father was. Mum replied in her rather refined accent. "Oh, he's away for the weekend with his bowls club. Darling, please tell me, what is it?"

I was holding the book in my hand, the back cover face out. I said carefully, "I bought this today", and laid it face up on the low coffee table in front of me. My mother dropped her chin to look, and stared at it unmoving for fully thirty seconds. I couldn't see her face until she looked up at me again. She was trying to be nonchalant, but her cheeks had developed a deep red blush. She shrugged, but couldn't keep a slight tremor out of her voice as she said, "So you bought yourself a mucky book of some kind. What's that to me?"

Her lie angered me. "Oh come on Mum, for Christ's sake, that's you on the bloody cover!"

She tried to laugh, but it didn't come off. Blushing still deeper, she said, "Really, darling, don't be ridiculous. Do you think I could ever have looked like that?"

I hung my head, shaking it. "Please Mum, I can telly you're lying, you're not very good at it. How could you?"

There was a moment's tense silence, then Mum slumped down beside me on the couch with a huge sigh. She gazed at the photo of her younger self. "Christ, I haven't seen that picture in years." I stared at her: the upper-crust accent I had always known had disappeared, and she had reverted to a London twang, sounding like an East End barrow boy. She picked up the book, flicked through it, and stopped when she found the interview with 'Candy'. Her eyes scanned it, and she muttered, "Oh, shit." I'd never heard Mum swear. Then, tapping the author's name on the cover of the book, she snarled, "The bastard! I didn't even know he was still alive. He might have told me he was going to do this. And he had no right to put me on the fucking cover." Then she turned to me. "I'm sorry darling, this must have come as rather a shock to you." Her voice was morphing strangely between common and refined, dirt and duchess. She sighed. "Still, I'm not sure why you're quite so upset about it."

I leapt to my feet and paced about the room as my voice steadily rose. "Oh no, why should I feel upset? I've just found out that my mother's a fucking WHORE! And give it a week and the whole sodding town'll work it out."

"Ian!" She spoke sharply, as if addressing the infant me. "I am still your mother, and don't forget it. Yes, I sold my body, then I stopped. I haven't been that woman since...well, a couple of years after you were born."

I stared at her open-mouthed, then collapsed back onto the sofa. "Jesus Christ -- you mean you were still doing this when I was a kid? Does Dad know? Is he even my real father?"

She looked as if she wanted to slap me. "Don't be stupid, of course he is. And as for him knowing, well, how do you think we met?"

"Fucking hell! So you mean Dad was a punter?"

She swallowed nervously. "At first, yes. Then I started working for him." I began to wonder how much worse it could get: not only had my middle-class conservative father used prostitutes, he'd actually pimped them! Mum turned to look me full in the face. "Have you ever been with a prostitute Ian?" I felt myself blushing. "Yes, well those girls you went with, they were all someone's daughter, or sister, or mother. Did you ever think about that? I know what's really upsetting you. It's not that people might start pointing fingers at me, is it? It's that they might point at you, and it might ruin your precious business that you care more about than you cared about your marriage. Well sod you!"

I stared at the thing which had been my mother in disbelief. Furiously I scrabbled in my jacket for my wallet. I clutched a wad of banknotes -- probably £250 -- and hurled them in her face. "Okay then, whore, how much will it cost me for a shag? Is that enough for you?"

She stared at me, shocked, then her eyes fell to the money that had landed in her lap and fluttered to the floor. She licked her lips, and I heard her almost whisper, "I could give you a real good seeing-to for that much." I looked at her in utter astonishment. Facing me, she said quietly, "I was fucking good at it, you know. I had men begging to screw me. I grew up in a family that was dirt poor. We never knew where the next meal was coming form. Not like you, who's never wanted for nothing" -- she pronounced it 'nuffink' -- "I know the value of money. And I never, ever, say no to a few more quid."

I was still trying to think through her last comment when she shuffled next to me on the couch. "I know what's really got you this upset darling. You're frustrated, that's all." I flinched as she started to gently stroke my hair. It seemed an innocent enough gesture, but it wasn't like a motherly touch, it was more sensual. Her fingertips stroked delicately against my forehead as she smoothed away my fringe. Her voice had become a soft murmur. "How long is it since you and Julie split up now? Nine months, is it? Have you been with a woman at all since then?" The truth was that I hadn't touched a woman since well before Julie and I decided to pull away from our crumbling marriage. Mum read it in the haunted look on my face. "Sexual frustration isn't good for a young man. You really ought to do something about it." Her face was now inches from mine. I could feel her warm breath on my cheek, and smell her perfume. I became aware of a stirring in my groin that shouldn't have been happening in my mother's presence.

Mum's fingers traced down my cheek, then she stood, walked to the door into the hallway, and turned to say, "I'll be back shortly darling." I sat staring at the carpet with my hands clasped, trying to work out what the hell was going on. Mum returned a few minutes later; I was surprised to see she had changed out of her day clothes into a dressing gown. She pushed a magazine into my hand. "I may be a little while; this should keep you amused. You might find page 24 interesting." Then she walked out of the room again.

I stared at the magazine. It was a rather battered glossy covered thing with the title Glamourpuss. The corners of the pages were curled with age and frequent turning. The cover showed a Marilyn Monroe look-alike dressed only in a pearl necklace, tiny black panties and black elbow-length gloves. Her huge breasts pointed straight at the camera, her nipples hidden by extended index fingers. My fingers suddenly felt very clumsy as, nervously, I turned to page 24. It was exactly what I'd dreaded. The first shot showed Mum, as she'd looked in her Soho days, winking at the camera as she held one of her big breasts to her mouth, licking the nipple. The next few pages showed her in all kinds of poses -- legs wide open as the lens focussed on her shaved pubis and her red gash; an extreme close-up which belonged in a journal of gynaecology; her arse to the camera, her cheeks pulled wide apart showing her puckered anus; and, finally, my mother lying on a bed pressing a vibrator deep into herself.

I wanted to put the magazine down, but it was if it was glued to my fingers. I stared at the pictures, flicking between pages, my trousers gradually tenting as my cock became increasingly erect. I felt sick at seeing my mother pose like that -- and sick at the way I was getting so aroused by the sight. The truth is, I didn't normally find porn photos that interesting, but I knew the reason for the effect this set was having on me was precisely because it was my mother in them.

I'm not sure how much time passed, but I was just beginning to wonder where she was when I heard her padding down the stairs. When she appeared in the doorway I gasped in amazement. Her hair was no longer brown, it was the same peroxide blonde as in the pictures I'd been looking at. Her face was plastered in make-up, and she looked considerably younger than her true age. And her clothes...well, she had changed into the very outfit that she wore on the cover of the book which had caused all the trouble! I was surprised she still had the outfit, or something very like it. The waistband of the leather skirt cut into her a bit more than in the photo, and her thighs looked a little more generous, but otherwise she didn't look much different from the girl she'd been 40 years previously. I should have felt revolted by the sight; instead, I felt my cock leap inside my pants. Mum sashayed towards me, tottering slightly on the stiletto heels, her hips swaying, her huge breasts jiggling under the blouse. In a little girl voice, she breathed, "Hallo sweetie, you looking for a nice time?" My mouth felt dry, and I couldn't think straight. She smiled. "Well then darlin', you'd better come upstairs."

She reached out and took my hand and, as if in a dream, I followed my mother to her bedroom, staring at her leather-clad backside. She had drawn the curtains, and the only light in the room came from the hallway outside. In the semi-darkness, Mum began to undress me. When she'd removed my shirt she kissed each of my nipples, and I shuddered as she tweaked them with her teeth. When she undid my trousers, and slipped them and my pants down my legs, she leaned back with a grin. "Well, haven't we grown into a big boy! Is that all for me?" When I was nude she laid me on the bed and stood beside me, taking off her own clothes slowly, seductively, her eyes locked on my face, a come-to-me smile on her lips. Then she lay beside me, her bare flesh brushing against mine. I noticed her pussy was no longer shaved, but had a thick mat of long grey-brown hair.

She leaned over me, and I felt her heavy breasts pressing into me as we kissed. I would never have dreamt that my mother could kiss so sexily, her tongue raking every corner of my mouth. I was still marvelling at that as she trailed her lips down my torso, and closed them over the tip of my cock. She moaned as she ran her lips up and down my shaft, her tongue tickling along the underside, her teeth grazing lightly against my flesh. When I groaned and wrapped my fingers in her hair she increased her moans of lust. I knew I couldn't last long, and after only a couple of minutes I shot my bolt into Mum's mouth. She laid her head on my chest and giggled, licking her lips. "Mmm, lovely. I haven't tasted that in a while."

After I'd caught my breath, with no sense of shame or guilt I lowered my head and sucked one of those massive tits into my mouth. The nipple was long and thick, and Mum sighed as I flicked my tongue across it. After a few minutes she slipped down the bed, and it was my turn to sigh as she wrapped her knockers around my prick, cupping my balls in one hand. I thrust between her soft, silky tits, revelling in the feel of those big cushiony boobs around my cock. When I came that time, Mum dipped her head and tried to catch my stream of spunk in her mouth. What she missed she scooped off her chest on her fingers and lapped at it, like a cat with a bowl of cream.

We kissed and cuddled for a while, then Mum started kneading my dick in her hand. I was soon stiff and ready for action again, and she rolled onto her back and manoeuvred me into position. She guided me to the edge of her pussy and I thrust into her, burying myself to the hilt. She let out a huge breath, and gasped, "Christ...so big!" I hooked my elbows behind her knees and lifted her legs, then proceeded to fuck her with all my strength for several minutes. She felt amazing inside, so warm and velvety, and she sighed over and over as fucked her. Before long she screamed, "Oh yes, yes, oh fuck yes", and I felt her cunt walls tighten around me. I held off as long as I could, but finally the wonderful feel of her pussy was too much for me and I fountained my jizz into her. Mum and I had another fuck and suck session before I left. At the door she kissed my cheek and chuckled, "That's the best two hundred quid I've earned in a good few years."

The local rag did soon pick up on it being mum's picture on the front of that book, but the outcome was very different to what I'd imagined. Not only did she do an interview for the paper, she did one for the local TV station too. Things snowballed from there: Mum kept her blonde look and, far from being embarrassed by her new-found notoriety, she revelled in it. She and the author of the book appeared together on the Jonathan Ross show on the BBC, and she spent a day in a Soho shop autographing copies of the book as they sold like hotcakes. She's been offered an advice column in a men's magazine, and there's even talk of a film -- the name Keira Knightley's been mentioned!

It hasn't done my business any harm either, being known as 'the son of courtesan Candy Cumcake'. Meanwhile, every time Dad's away with his bowls club, I draw a couple of hundred pounds out of the bank, and go round and pay a dutiful visit to my dear old Mum.