The Artist the Model

There are certain things in life that young men don't generally dream of. Wearing dresses, winning baking contests, and seeing your mother pleasuring herself to artwork you'd painted of young women in varying, and compromising, poses. The latter of those is what brought me a night of fitful sleeping that was well beyond any other I'd ever had the misfortune of living through.

Every dream I had, was about my mother. Positions she could be in, her body naked, glistening with sweat, calling out my name in passionate exhales, riding upon my shaft as if her very life depended upon it. They were dreams that quickly woke me up to a lonely bed.

For a moment, I found myself thinking the whole thing had been a dream. That I had imagined my mother coming to visit, that I had accidently happened upon her in that moment of her most intimate vulnerability. Perhaps I was thinking just a little too loud.

"Damn it!" she cried out from the kitchenette, drawing my fogged attention across the apartment to where she stood in a simple robe that barely coaxed itself down past her beautifully curved buttocks.

Being the ever attentive son, at least when it came to ensuring that my family was safe and protected, I tossed the sheets off myself and hurried across to her.

I found myself startling her completely by accident, which caused her to drop the knife she'd been holding. It's razor tip stabbing down into the floor only an inch from her foot, and I nearly had a heart attack. She wasn't exactly all that calm about it herself.

"Shit! I'm sorry, ma. You alright?"

Slowly she bent down, one hand clutched up against her belly, the other reaching to grab the knife from my poor, impaled floor. I was treated, briefly as it was, to the delicious view of her rounded backside unveiled from beneath her robe. Much to my chagrin, she had donned panties during the night.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Michael."

Setting the knife on the counter, she finally turned to face me. Her eyes darted downwards, natural habit for any person when confronted with nudity of the opposite gender. Then her cheeks flushed a bright red as she turned away. "Jesus, Michael, do you ever wear clothes around this place?"

Again I found myself dumbfounded by my carelessness. Though, I couldn't help wondering if her reaction, the increased embarrassment, had anything to do with the night before. Still, I was naked, and probably needed to at least throw a pair of shorts on, as if they could hide my own obvious reaction to the dreams I'd had.

"Sorry. And usually no. I don't exactly get a lot of female visitors who are related to me," I off-handedly commented.

"I noticed that."

I wasn't sure, but I could have sworn there was the slightest hint of jealousy in her voice, a bare minimum of it that any other man would have overlooked. But considering recent events, I found myself all the more keyed into my mother's feelings, her moods and reactions.

A few moments later I returned with shorts covering my slowly wilting erection. Mom was sitting on my bed now, her legs pressed together, her left hand still clutched to her belly. Only now I noticed the wad of paper towels that were wrapped around her finger.

Concern washed over me like a flood and I moved to her side. It was an impulsively manly thing to do, but I couldn't help it. I had to be the hero, the man of the hour.

"So that's what you were on about," I said with sympathy drenching my words. Reaching over, I gently took her hand in mind and pulled the towels away.

"I'm sorry, baby. I really didn't mean to wake you up. I was just trying to make some breakfast and the knife slipped. Then you were there and scared the crap out of me." Her words trailed off after that, and her eyes darted away.

I could tell she was thinking about earlier, about seeing me naked again. Twice in two days, and I'd had the fortune to see her mostly naked, and extremely vulnerable. Even now, holding her hand, I wondered if she had finished working herself to a fevered orgasm. The whole scene played back with crystal clarity and I was truly aroused by it.

"Well, if it helps any, ma, you scared the crap out of me, too."

She smiled at that, leaning a bit closer as I held her hand. Just the two of us sitting on the edge of my bed, alone, finding that the silence of the apartment was broken only by our steady breathing and the heavy beating of hearts in our chests.

It was then that I realized how much I wanted her to be both someone completely different, and at the same time, so glad that she was my mother. A thrill of excitement touched at my spine and worked its way down with a slow caress sending a shiver through me.

Mom noticed it, as her eyes turned towards me with a look of concern. Those pretty brows knitted together while she looked me over, wondering just why I had shivered when my apartment was comfortably warm. Swallowing, knowing just what she was thinking, I gave her a wane smile and finally uncurled my hands from around hers. There was almost a look of disappointment on her face, though it was too brief to be sure.

"Michael, can we... can we talk about last night?"

In that moment, I needed to get some distance between the two of us. She was beautiful, barely dressed, and wanting to talk about that purely beautiful scene that had been shared between us the night previous. It was all I could do to not seduce her then and there, to force myself against normal habits and actually walk away just enough to clear my head and keep my more than obvious arousal from being on proud display under my flimsy shorts.

"Sure, ma," I finally exhaled as I went back over to the kitchenette.

She hesitated for a few moments, eyes glancing at the floor, then back up towards me. "I'm... I'm stupidly embarrassed about it," she finally breathed after those terrible seconds of silence. Her voice ending with a nervous giggle as she checked over her finger to make sure it wasn't bleeding any more.

I had to admit that I was feeling much the same way, turning to look at her. She looked stunning, even when she was putting herself out before the judges and hoping they did not find her guilty of some grand abomination of action. "Ma, I think it's a wonderful compliment that my paintings can get my own mother hot and bothered."

Again she giggled, only this time without as much nervousness. Her lilting laughter felt a little more natural, a little less forced, and enjoyably warm as she pushed up off the bed to come up to the island counter and watch me.

"Baby, that was a bit more than hot and bothered. I mean, you saw me doing something that guys aren't supposed to see their mom's doing." Her mouth held the faintest of smiles as she groped around for words. I could tell, even from where I stood, that she was wrestling with feelings that were as foreign as my own towards her.

That was the crux of the whole problem, too. We both knew what these feelings were, but they hadn't ever been applied to each other. We'd never before felt aroused and in lust for someone in our own family, let alone each other.

There was a fresh kind of excitement in those feelings, a sense of wonderment that we could desire each other. Yet through it all, there was also that sense of foreboding dread that we were somehow breaking some grand law of nature by even thinking the way we were.

"I don't know why not. I've seen plenty of other men's moms doing that before. I guess it's only natural I see my own, too."

Before I had a chance to move, mom was flinging a towel at me. I gave an offhanded yelp of surprise when it slapped my shoulder, then grinned as both of us broke out into rolls of laughter.

"No wonder you get so many of those girls naked, Michael. Such a smooth talker." She grinned with just a hint of impish delight while her arms crossed just beneath her breasts. Those robe covered mounds pushed upwards in a delightful display that made my breath catch in my throat and my hard on throb painfully in my shorts.

Our conversation, thankfully, turned to things less sexually charged as I took over breakfast making and finish up our meal. She was ever curious about my life, how I had been managing the past few years, what my love life was like, and if I had any plans to settle down with a nice young woman. Or, as I joked offhandedly, a nice older woman who was well off financially.

It felt good to bleed off that sexual tension between us with normal conversation. Both of us were more relaxed after that, easing into a routine of normalcy.

Of course, she wanted to go shopping, and I wanted to get some work done. Fortunately, she didn't gently demand that accompany her on her little spree as she sauntered over to the bathroom and took her shower.

When she left my apartment for her trip around the local stores, I took the opportunity to bring out my latest work. It was a portrait I had been working on for another of my clients. Her and her boyfriend locked in an intimate embrace with his stiff shaft thrust into her backside, her legs spread wide, her body facing the viewer. When I had started, I had made the fortuitous decision to take a few pictures so that I could continue working when they weren't around, and because I rather enjoyed watching the two of them together.

With ritualistic habit, I sunk into that 'zone' of painting. Liquid hues and a forest of brushes becoming the only distraction from the canvas in front of me, time ticking by without so much as a sound which kept me locked in front of the canvas for the hours between mom leaving, and her return.

When she came back, I was almost oblivious to the sound of the door opening and her heels clicking on the floor. Bags rustled as she swayed them back and forth, dropping the whole lot onto my bed before flinging herself onto it and giggling giddily.

It was that giggle that brought me out of my painting mindset, turning to see her flung out on my bed, arms and legs stretched out, and her heavy breasts tightly bound up in her shirt heaving with every excited breath. I could picture myself crawling atop her, my hands roaming over her body, touching her in all those places I had touched so many other women before.

"Find everything you were looking for?" Again she giggled, finally rolling onto her side and propping her head up onto a hand. "It's a good thing I saved up for this trip, baby, or else you'd have me moving in with you." She grinned with her words, and I wondered if she wasn't actually putting the idea past me to see how I'd react.

"I can think of worse things." Grinning back, taking a quick glance at my painting and knowing that I wouldn't be able to get back to it, I set my palette and brush aside, wiped my hands on an old rag, and moved over to the bed.

"Aww, that's sweet, Michael." Her giggles erupted again, making me wonder if she had been out drinking, too. Though I didn't smell the telltale liquor hovering around her, that didn't mean she hadn't imbibed a little with her lunch.

"Anyway, I found the most amazing clothing stores while I was out, and decided that I would go just a little wild." Her body began to curl as she shifted position, moving to her knees on the bed. Like a child at Christmas, she began rummaging around the bags looking at her various finds and self-bought presents. Her eyes fairly sparkled with delight, and her breath quickened.

I wondered silently to myself, what she was plotting. Of all the traits my mother had displayed over the years, the most important was her devious cunning. A practical joker that had gotten both me and my sister on numerous occasions, we had learned early that there was very little our mother didn't think about when it came to tricking us. We'd even gone so far as to call her 'Ms. Mastermind'.

"So," I began, trying to peer into the bags. "Do you plan on modeling any of it for me, do are you just going to tease me?"

She giggled again, snatching the bags up to her chest and looking up at me with an almost feral gleam. "I'll model them soon enough. Go finish your painting and I'll make you some lunch. Knowing you, you completely forgot to eat something."

Sighing, resigning myself to the fact that my mother was playing another of her games, I was reminded of the fact that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. My belly rumbled, alerting me to its present state, and I gave a helpless shrug and faint grin. "Yeah, yeah. What kind of artist would I be if I wasn't starving?"

Hoarding her bags off into the corner near my bed, she made sure that I knew not to go peeking before she was ready, then sauntered into the kitchenette.

I was left truly wondering just what plot she was scheming this time. Since this morning, she seemed a completely different person. Every part of her alive and aflame with excitement that I hadn't seen in her since both Georgia and I were younger and still living at home. It might've been the shopping, as I'd always thought shopping was like a drug for some people. But then, there were plenty of other activities in the Big Apple that could have the same effect on a woman.

Lunch, of course, was delicious and exactly what I needed. We both talked more, fell into silence, then talked again. A casual routine of give and take that felt completely natural, and at the same time, forced.

It was when the sun was setting and evening descended that mom finally noticed the painted I had brought out to work on. In my distraction of her return, I had completely forgotten to put it away.

Seeing the look on her face as she surveyed the nearly finished painting was something magical in a way. I could tell she was excited by it, that she was envisioning what it must have looked like the first time I they posed for me. Her mind was working hard, putting all the pieces together until she could nearly feel the scene come to life in her mind's eye, and even then, she went steps further in her imagining of the scene.

Quietly I stepped up behind her, looking over the painting and seeing all the things that I still needed to work on. Little flaws, strokes of genius, bits and pieces that I needed to touch up.

"What was it like, watching them?" she whispered. Her fingers were lightly touching at her neck, stroking nails over skin that was suffused with her flushed excitement.

"It was exciting." I smiled a bit, moving to curl an arm around mom's shoulders and hold her against me. "They were incredibly open about their relationship and wanted to have something special to show their love."

She seemed to shiver against me, but didn't pull away. "Did they, you know, finish?"

"Why do you think I had to take pictures?" I grinned at that, reaching over with my free hand to pull out the little envelope of snapshots I had taken of the couple from various angles. Handing it to her, I smiled as my eyes went back to the painting.

When she gasped, my fingers instinctively clutched tighter at her shoulder. Her eyes drank up the pictures, taking time to look over every single one of them. Only when she had completely devoured every last inch of the photos, did she put them back in their envelope. Even then, she remained deathly quiet against my side.

"Michael," she started, paused. Her eyes glanced down at the floor, looking for her thoughts there as if they were scattered bits of paper she could pluck from around her feet and put together in some semblance of order. "I... I want you to paint me."