Frankenmom; or, My Mother Frank
Frankenmom; or, My Mother Frank
INTRODUCTION: Mom spends weekend in her son's dormitory and things happen otherwise…
Of course, being a freshman, the only art class available was the equivalent of Drawing 101. There was no testing out of it. The day I was told to render a drawing horse in two-point perspective I called Mom in tears, begging her to extricate me from this bad decision. Mom, being pragmatically Mom, refused, comforting me with the advice to give it more time.
Soon after, my collegiate fortunes shifted. I caught a flier, an invitation for a non-juried exhibit on the walls of the student coffeehouse. I hung two paintings, and next thing I knew, Jack McAffee, the head of the art department, had me transferred into the senior painting seminar. He became, I suppose, my mentor. I had to work hard at my appreciation; Jack's work, really, reminded me of not but a notch above my great-great-grandfather's stuff. Maybe a little more informed by modernism.
My chest was wide as a highway and deep as a well when I called Mom with the news that the official college gallery was being given over to a display of my paintings. A one-man-show, with an opening! Such honors were unheard of in my lineage. There would be a table bearing nourishment for the guests. Plates of crackers that weren't saltines. Cheeses that weren't packaged by Velveeta. Wine that wasn't, perhaps, Gallo.
The greatest surprise of the conversation was when Mom announced that she'd arrive the evening before to ensure she got a hotel room. Mom was going to be there Well of course she was. Why should that come as a surprise
Because I hadn't thought of it, so busy was I with peripheral plans. I was of course banking on the fact of my fame garnering girls galore falling at my feet. Wasn't that how things worked when you went away to college I'd had a sort of girlfriend in high school, briefly. Already I was cashing in on the possibilities of finding out what it must be like to do more than exchange chaste kisses with a girl. The odd fumbling feel of another's flesh. The stolen glances down the front of a half-unfastened blouse. Surely the college held adoring artsy girls who would want to do whatever. Just because I'd never glimpsed a single one didn't necessarily mean that a bevy of them didn't exist.
It wasn't that I didn't want Mom to be there. It was just that. Mom might wind up saying something to someone which would ruin my plans. I could see her accidentally shredding some poor girl standing beside me who might've otherwise followed me to my room.
That was Mom. Honest to a fault. Perfectly frank. Prefacing every other remark with a form of frank. So much so that in the past several years I'd taken to calling her by the nickname Frank.
When the weekend arrived, I knew well enough that the bad would be skipped, that things would go from good to worst. It was no surprise when Mom knocked on my dorm door and I answered to find her standing there still holding her suitcase.
There was not a room to be had in all the town. I'd only discovered earlier in the afternoon that the very hour of my opening coincided exactly with the kick-off of the Homecoming game. supposed.There wasn't really anything else to do but offer up my hospitality. I could hardly send her packing-drive back home and 'I'll see you in the morning.' The sun was hovering at the horizon; Mom was notoriously nightblind.
To my immense relief, come dinnertime, Mom didn't even mention the Commons. I was afraid she'd want to share the experience of my thrice- daily experience. It was an apt name, though I didn't understand the plural. Very, very common. It wasn't that I didn't want to be seen associated with her; I didn't want her to associate me with it.
"So, what's the best restaurant in town?"
That was an easy pick. There was only one place in town that even remotely qualified as a restaurant.
"Randy's," I answered.
"Randy's" she ventured.
"Hey, I didn't name it."
"Then Randy's it is."
"Though I should warn you," I added, "that the title best-restaurant-in- town is a very relative term."
"How relative" Mom got a squeamish look.
"Well. if this was back home, you wouldn't know anyone who'd ever set foot in the place. At least to admit of it."
"Is it that bad?"
"Oh no. It's the best restaurant in town. Just bear in mind town," I grinned. "Not much in the way of quiet-tables-for-two. It's the land of huge round-tops. Think of a big trough. And a whole lot of pigs."
"So I take it we can expect to be greeted at the door by the titular personage, dressed in a tux"
"Huh" I was confused. "Oh. Naw. You're joking, right Listen, Frank, I think the place was named after the physiological condition of its patrons."
Mom's turn to battle confusion.
"You'll see," I nodded.
Then she understood. I don't think she was terribly shocked, but it did take a few minutes for her eyebrows to sink back down.
"Put it this way: my work-study, I go to the library a few evenings a week, sit at a desk and shelve books and daydream about pretty girls. The poor jocks, they have to spend all day every day at Randy's; they sit at their tables and shovel food-all their dreams come true."
When we walked in, the little bell above the door seemed to have turned into a gigantic gong. In unison, every face in the place turned in our direction. Mouths opened mid-chew and tongues played with their food. The guys anyway.
"Friends of yours" Mom whispered slyly.
"No, but it looks like they want to be friends of yours!"
I got a quick elbow in the ribs. I jutted mine out to fend off any further attacks. But instead, Mom's arm quickly threaded its way through mine. Jaws dropped, tongues lolled, and clumps of food plopped back on plates.
While there weren't any small tables, there were booths for the taking. We took one, sitting on opposite sides of the table. I fetched us menus from the clip on the condiment carrier. Mom gifted me with a smile as I stretched and handed hers over. The booths were built for big bellies. I looked at her in a fresh way from across this great gulf.
I could understand the reactions. Mom looked different from everyone in the restaurant. Even I looked bland in comparison. The odd drops of blood had coagulated in her appearance. Some Mexican mestizo, some Cherokee, some lateral ancestor from Sicily: it'd all come together in her dark exotic features. Against the nearly universal blonde wide- browed piggy-eyed standard of local beauty, she was an orchid set out in a field of dandelions. But I hadn't ever really given her that consideration.
Mom was Mom. Mom had always been Mom. That Mom was beautiful was a given; all Moms are beautiful. From infancy-there's the beautiful Mom- face smiling down at you, the beautiful Mom-hands stroking and holding you, not to mention the bounty of the Mom-breasts.
As well, I'd never thought of Mom in terms of being a woman. Women were . well, they weren't your Mom. It was a major shock for me. Sitting there across from me was not only my beautiful Mom, but a beautiful woman. Smiling at me. Smiling at me alone. A woman who had the attention of every guy in this big room. And she was focusing all her attention on me. A woman who had every guy in the place yearning for a glance, whereas her eyes were mine alone.
Every guy in the place had the hots for her! They'd hop aboard for a ride first chance they got. Even though she was old enough to be any of their Moms. They were all my age. She was my Mom. And she was smiling at me! She was talking to me.
"Huh Oh yea. What"
"I was asking if you had any particular recommendation."
To press Rewind for a few years and decide to become an electrical engineer instead. I tried to be suave, "Your choice. Whatever catches your eye. It's bound to be good. If not great, at least satisfying."
Eventually I was saved from my own mouth by the arrival of the waitress. Out of uniform, she would have been lost to sight in the sea of sameness surrounding us. The regulation straw-thatch roof for hair. The forehead broad enough to be a roof joist. And nearly centered in that expanse the pair of eyes set about a penny apart. She gave us a greedy look while she took our orders, flashing back and forth between me and Mom.
Mom chirped like a bird as the waitress walked away. As the waitress sashayed away.
"What's so funny" I asked.
There was a twinkle in her eye. "You didn't see It was so obvious. She wanted to order you- la carte, of course."
I sat bolt upright. "No way!"
She rolled her shoulders. "Whatever you say; it's definitely your call. Not to deny you your desires, but it would make me proud to think you had inherited a sense of taste."
Mom looked around, and then giggled. "I guess that completes it. We've filled the place."
I didn't understand.
"We're even kitchen gossip, now," she explained.
Before she could explain that, the waitress was back bearing a full tray. The attraction of Randy's was, I suppose, that nothing on the menu couldn't be pre-prepped to within a minute of the plate. The fast- food franchises would never make it in this town.
The waitress basically dropped Mom's plate in front of her. The piece of fish and new potatoes jumped and landed in a jumble. She was a bit gentler with the bowl of soup, but made up for that by positively slamming down her glass of iced tea. Mom just smiled.
Then it was my turn. This stranger bent unnecessarily low to serve me, locking her eyes on mine. Her eyes kept glancing down, indicating, I finally realized, that I was supposed to be doing the same with mine, the better to enjoy the view down the front of her blouse. The way she slid my plate into place made me think she was sliding down her pants. My club sandwich was perfectly quartered and landed before my face without a quiver. She gave a tug to the paper wrapping on the straw, and there was no mistaking the gesture that unsheathed the straw. Then she stuck it in my soda, angling it towards me. I was afraid she was going to hold the straw and wait for me to take a sip. Mom, I could see, though still silent, had given up trying to keep a straight face.
The stupid woman finally went away. Mom was darting glances all around. Apparently, I was labeled a stud.
"Don't you see Honestly Come on, Davey, I didn't raise you to be this dense. I'll be frank with you. It's never occurred to any of them that I'm your mother." Mom leaned in close across the table, enveloped one of my hands in hers, and then with that lavish smile of hers informed me with a heightened whisper, "David, they all assume I'm your lover."
Girlfriend, I could have reacted sensibly to that. But lover It was like the secret of life, a magic word loaded with mystery. You held hands with a girlfriend. Maybe, if you were exceptionally lucky, you even got to have sex with your girlfriend. But a lover I couldn't even imagine! Just the thought of the word had the heat rising in my head. And a turgid stirring in my pants.
"How cute! You're blushing. Frankly, you're blushing so bright everyone can see it. They watch me whispering to you, and you blush. I bet they wonder what I'm saying."
The flow of blood redoubled. In both places.
"I tell you what," Mom gleamed. "Let's really give them something to talk about." Her fingers began lightly stroking the back of my hand. "Let me have a taste of your club."
I nearly whimpered, then understanding, nudged my plate towards Mom.
"No no no-the quarter in your hand, hold it out to me."
She bent forward and took a dainty nibble. And then, I never would have guessed that chewing a morsel of food could be turned into such an erotic display.
"Now," she sat back, announcing brightly, "would you like to try my soup It's deliciously bland."
I was beginning to catch on. Nodding, I grinned then leaned, letting her slip the spoon into my mouth. "Exquisitely bland," I agreed with great enthusiasm, letting my tongue circle my lips.
"That took me back," Mom laughed. She took my hand back in hers. "I always did like spoon-feeding you. Frankly, it was such a. such an unusual pleasure." Letting go of my hand, she returned to her food. "Nothing like the breast, of course, but a sharing of sensual pleasure nonetheless."
I looked down at my plate. Food was the furthest from my thoughts. Mom's voice penetrated this dangerous recess. "I think we should up the ante, add to your cachet."
I heard the soft rustle of legs being crossed, and then a shoe dropped. I waited for the proverbial other.
"David" I glanced up
Mom's eyes were dancing all over me. "My goodness! To be frank, I didn't know the human face could get that red." A nylon foot brushed against my ankle, then lingered, sliding up under my pants leg, teasing my calf. "We're putting on quite a show, don't you think we're driving them wild." I gulped.
"Two minutes," Mom declared, "I guarantee it."
Two minutes she was guaranteeing what No doubt what I was afraid of happening in about that amount of time.
"See Right on schedule."
I glanced to my side to see a girl walking up to our table. I was confused. At first I thought she was our waitress. She looked just like our waitress. But she wasn't wearing the uniform. She had the same sort of sway as our waitress. Maybe our waitress was off-duty now.
She scowled at Mom, and then turned sweetly to me.
"Hi, David!" Different voice: it wasn't our waitress.
"I heard that you were having a picture show tomorrow! I'm so sorry I won't be able to be there, what with the game and all! But maybe you could show them to me personally sometime! I'd like that!"
"Uh, sure. Whatever."
"Okay! Thanks! Here!" she slipped a piece of paper on the table beside me. "Gimme a call! See ya later!"
Mom grinned like the cat that'd eaten the whole goddamn aviary. "Classmate of yours"
"More than a friend"
"Stop it, Frank."
"Had her phone number already written out for you," Mom nodded. "That definitely qualifies as premeditated."
"Were things that different went you were in school I would've thought that a girl who carries around copies of her phone number, who walks around and dispenses them would have always been known as a. as a . "
"A slut" Mom inquired. She snorted. "I never meant to imply that she wasn't a slut! What's her name?"
"How should I know" I held the paper up. "The saddest sight in all the world: a phone number written down without an identifier. Tiffany, Brittany, Bethany, one of those names. It hardly matters: I don't do people who speak in exclamations."
"She'll be doing you, if you give her half a chance."
"It's a sort of rule-of-mating among the lesser hominoids. Desirability increases inversely to availability. Perversely, to be frank. Invite her up to your room to see your etchings and see what happens. A stupid line for a stupid girl for some stupid fun. And frankly, Davey, I think you could use some stupid fun in your life."
Mom's hand disappeared from the table, went fiddling to her side, then dived all the way under, rubbing on my knee. "Here," she hissed, "slip this on the table and let's get out of here."
I reached under for her hand and she slipped me a piece of paper. Like a note in class. Or a scribbled phone number at a party. It was a hundred dollar bill. What was it doing in my hand?
"Man pays," Mom nodded. "Let's go."
"But we need the check, don't we and what about the change this place is not so expensive. We couldn't have ordered more than sixty or seventy bucks."
She stood up and practically pulled me out of the booth.
"Hey, big spender, keep your options open." Then Mom bent to my ear, "Look! She's dragging him out of here-wonder why she's in such a hurry!"
"Frank, you're insane!" I whispered as we approached the door.
"Don't be so serious, David. You're always too serious. I'm just setting you up for some fun."
Once we were outside and down the sidewalk, Mom pulled up short. "I want you to have some fun. I want the best for my boy. But listen here. I'm going to be frank with you. Have fun. Fuck yourself silly with these girls. "
My eyes went big and round.
"Come on, Davey," she snorted. "Fuck is in my vocabulary too. As I was saying: have fun, but don't you dare take it seriously. Don't you dare make it serious. Don't be bringing one of those creatures home to meet your Mom. Mom doesn't want them in the house. Of course, I can't tell you what to do. But I can tell you what I'll do. Hitch up with one of them critters and start having spawn, don't come crying to me. Don't think you'll turn me into the grandma/babysitter for anything like that. Little bovine babies-I'd eat them for breakfast."
We stood there facing each other, a few paces apart, in the silence of minutes.
Her hand darted towards me and I flinched. But Mom just patted my head. "Good boy."
We made our way back to my room. Once inside, the evening took on the sleepy sort of feeling that comes of full bellies and nothing better to do. Mom sat on the edge of the bed sort of wagging her head.
"Davey," she hesitated, "I'm in a bit of a quandary. Do you have, say, an old flannel shirt I could sleep in"
I must have given her some sort of screwball look because that's exactly what she threw back at me, with an exasperated sort of sigh.
"Honey, I came prepared to sleep by myself in a hotel suite, not bunk it with my son in his dorm room."
A hotel suite In this town
You, uh, didn't bring pajamas" I asked the obvious.
"If I'd brought pajamas, I wouldn't be asking for a night shirt, now would I"
"No nightgown or anything"
"No nightgown or anything."
"What do you normally sleep in" the question slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
Mom started to blush but then she lifted her chin. Like hitting a switch, her blush turned off. "If you must know, I generally sleep in nothing at all."
Oh. "Oh." I didn't know that about her. I didn't need to know that about her. I flushed, my mind flaring with thoughts of women in bed, women going to bed naked. My Mom as a woman who slept completely naked. And once again I was confronted with the bizarre reality that this person I'd always known as Mom was in fact a woman. That underneath her Mom-clothes, Mom was a naked woman.
"So for modesty's sake, if you please-I'd really rather not have to ruin this silk blouse. And I doubt you want to see your old Mom with her boobs hanging out."
I was at the closet! No, I was not ready to see that.
The problem was that I had the clothes I was wearing, and a set of good things for tomorrow, but otherwise everything else I owned was the dirty laundry I'd been delaying doing for several weeks. I was wondering if I'd be able to sneak a shirt out of the basket that didn't smell too bad, or if I should just let her have my good shirt for the night. I slid the closet door open a crack. providence! There in the jangly graveyard of empty hangers was the ghost of a flannel shirt. I'd forgotten all about it! Then I remembered exactly why. It wasn't in the wash because I hadn't worn it. I hadn't worn it because it'd been washed too many times.
Not until I had it out of the closet and held out in my hands to give to Mom did I remember the whole story. The damn thing had seen the inside of a hot dryer too many times. The only reason I hadn't thrown in away was that it had once been my favorite flannel shirt. It still was, in a technical sense. However faded, the charcoal greys and pinks of the print made my eyes so happy. But the cuffs had gotten so frayed, and the sleeves so short, I'd cut them off above the elbows. The shirt had shrunk in every direction. Barely the tips of the tails could be tucked in. And though I hardly had a manly chest, it was a tight fit across the front. Then I remembered the missing buttons. The second one down from the collar was still there, barely hanging by a thread, giving a false sense of security regarding the two missing directly below it. If the button was about twice the size, then maybe its ragged hole would've held it tight. I'd finally quit wearing the shirt because every time I turned around the damn thing would be open to nearly my navel. Like I should be standing around, hips cocked, gold chains nestled in a thick mat of chest hair, Hey hey, bay-bee, check it out!
Mom held the shirt up in front of her, sort of looking at it as though she didn't quite recognize it as a shirt. "Perhaps I should take you shopping tomorrow afternoon." While she was occupied I slowly turned, surreptitiously slipping my good shirt, hanger and all, from the dresser knob back into the closet.
"Oh, wait a minute. Why don't you try this one instead" I turned around, too late.
Her blouse lay on the bed beside her. Mom had somehow put on the shirt, buttoning it as best it would, having gotten only one arm through the sleeves. Her hidden hand fumbled around under the fabric for the longest time. She looked up, "Heavens no, that's your good shirt. This one will," she gave a grunt, the other arm finally snaking out its sleeve, "suffice. Could use a few more buttons, though, couldn't it"
I winced, watching the top button straining its hole.
Then I witnessed one of the most amazing sights I'd ever seen in all my life. Mom took her newly freed hand, slipped it up the other sleeve, grappled around for a moment, and then she pulled her brassiere out through the sleeve!
I gaped at her. Mom smiled back. "Neat trick, huh"
I nearly blurted out that I wanted her to show me the secret.
"As I'm sure you're already starting to discover, us gals have a lot of interesting tricks."
No doubt. Not that I really knew of any. Though I was very eager to learn.
The shirt really did not fit. While I didn't have a manly chest, my shoulders were significantly wider than Mom's. She filled out the slack with a decidedly womanly chest.
Mom glanced down to see what I was staring at, then looked back up. "You're right, it is a rather tight fit."
"I'm sorry, Mom. I don't have anything else clean. I was planning on doing my laundry on Sunday."
"And how many Sundays ago would that have been" she grinned.
I recognized a rhetorical question when slapped in the face with it.
"Do you have any padded hangers" she asked with a frown. I stuck my head back into the closet. What the hell was a padded hanger
"And maybe one with clips" One with clips
By the time I turned around Mom just grabbed what she could from my feeble grip. A regular wire hanger for the blouse, one for her skirt, and another to suspend her pantyhose. She started arranging the trio on dresser knobs. The hose slipped off their hanger; Mom bent without a thought, plucking them from the floor and redraping them.
Fantasy and reality had actually overlapped in my lifetime! There was a woman wearing only panties and a short shirt-my shirt!-prancing around my room. But. it was Mom. That didn't do me any good. It just made my thoughts sort of foggy. I busied myself by fetching the spare blanket from the top shelf in the closet.
While I was turned, Mom disappeared into the bathroom. She fiddled around in there forever, giving me ample time to hunt up an old pair of gym trunks. That, with the t-shirt I was wearing, was the closest I had to pajamas. I, too, generally went bare to bed.
I took my turn in the bathroom. After that, I was pretty much at a loss. How to entertain my guest I knew nothing of slumber party protocol. No popcorn within miles. I didn't even have a deck of cards. I needed some sort of distraction. Sure, it was just Mom. But I was having some difficulty keeping that straight.
Big exciting Friday night for you, huh Stuck in your room hanging out with your Mom. Who's quite the life of the party." She yawned again, then gave a great feline stretch. That was it for the button. Mom's hands flew down to grip the collar as she chortled, "I mean, stuck in your room with your Mom who's hanging out!" She shoved the errant button back through its slot. "Quite the life of the party!"
Naturally, I gave Mom the bed. I had the spare blanket I'd gotten down for me. That and the floor, with the wadding of my pants and shirt for a pillow.
We both slept fairly late into the morning. My sleep was actually more like that of a gemstone tumbling around in a stone-polisher. There were moments when I came to rest. Snuggling in the blanket against the blank stone hardness of the linoleum floor. The early morning was miserable for me, but I kept drifting away and forgetting about it, hour by hour.
Then Mom stepped on my toes. I gave a squeak, but already she was off in the shower. I thought about how I wanted to get clean, too, but the linen service provided me with just the one towel, a small towel, what would be a very damp towel to dry off with, but then I fell back asleep.
The next day mom visited some place for work and I was on my own. I didnt have anything to do in the night . Mom arrived after sometime and we end up on chatting for about half an hour or so..
With that, Mom came around, grabbed the flannel shirt off the back of the desk chair, then turned towards the bathroom. "Pardon me a moment while I go get comfortable. To be frank, well, being a boobless person, you'll never quite understand what sort of torture a bra can become.
When she returned, visibly wearing nothing but the shirt and her panties, she immediately came and wrapped herself in my bed-the spare blanket folded at the end of the real bed. Then Mom leaned over and fiddled with the channel dials-suddenly we were getting a UHF station from our city. And a crystal clear picture. It was right past the hour, and the Movie of the Week was just getting underway. The opening shot was of a tone-arm dropping onto a 45 single.
Come with me/to the sea To the sea/of love
I cringed. I knew what would be coming. There'd been a fairly stern Parental Advisory, so maybe they wouldn't cut out Ellen Barkin's tits. I looked over at Mom; she was engrossed, swaddled in the blanket. We watched the movie through the big bedroom scene. By that point I was thoroughly uncomfortable. Right at the climax, one of the hangers suddenly clattered to the floor. We both jumped.
The picture was instantly fuzzy. Mom reached over and turned down the sound. "Do you mind It's all blood and guts after this. Whew, though. Frankly, that was pretty steamy by network standards. I was wondering how they'd handle it. I thought they might cut the scene entirely."
"So," I ventured, "you've seen this"
"When it first came out. I love Al Pacino. And Barkin's pretty sexy, for a blonde. Very distinctive looking. I take it you've seen it before as well"
"On video, last year ago or so."
Mom smirked a little. "Just imagine, then, how hot she looks when her tits are ten feet across."
"Well, yea," I faked a shrug, "while you sit there with your feet sticking to the floor wanting to vomit from the smell of yellow-flavored popcorn."
She gave a snort, and then we vaguely returned to the magic screen. It was pretty great: we couldn't really see what was going on and we couldn't really hear what was going on. Someone seemed to fly across a room, grunting. There were splashes of red, it seemed.
Mom nudged me. "So, are you disappointed"
"Are you kidding What a great movie; pity about the reception. Best TV I've watched in this room ever."
She bonked me on the head. "You know what I'm talking about. Today."
I rolled my shoulders. "Hmm Naw, not really."
"You sure" she gave my upper arm a brief, brisk rub.
I considered the question again. Was I really being honest I nodded in affirmation. "Yup. That's the beauty of diminished expectations."
"Frankly, David, that's probably not the best attitude to carry around with you in life. It's really the mark of a bitter old man."
"I know, I know."
"No no, none of this I know, I know business. I'm serious. You should expect the best, otherwise you'll never meet up with it."
"I know, I know," I grinned. "But in this specific instance it seemed like a good idea to be prepared. The conspiracy of circumstances. What's one skinny guy with a brush compared to a field full of big bruisers with a funny shaped ball, huh No contest." I thought some more. "But that even Jerk McAffee didn't show, yea. That does leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Though not as bitter as that godawful wine."
Just the thought made me want to brush my teeth. So I stood up to go do that, snagging my gym shorts on the way. It'd been a long day and I was getting tired. I wasn't going to watch the rest of the movie, not sitting up on Mom's bed. However much my bones creaked at the thought, I wanted nothing more than to be flat on the floor, rolled up in the extra blanket.
When I returned, in just the shorts and the same t-shirt, with breath minty fresh, I sat on the edge of the bed just long enough to establish my presence. Then I tugged at a loose corner of the blanket surrounding Mom. "Can I have my bed back now I'm sorry to be the party-pooper tonight, but I really want to lay down."
She gave me a perplexed look. "Go right ahead."
"Um," I glanced at the floor, "there's my mattress, but," looking back up, "you're sort of wearing my covers."
"You're not sleeping on the floor tonight," she stated, surprising me completely. "Not after you've spent the whole day bent over and limping along like a hunchbacked cripple. Frankly, that's nonsense. It'll be a might cozy, but you're sleeping in the bed tonight."
"No no no," I protested.
"Okay, then," Mom replied. "You have the bed, and I'll sleep on the floor."
There was no way I was going to have Mom sleep on the floor. "There's no way I'll allow you to sleep on the floor."
"Then I guess it's settled," she answered primly.
I looked at the bed, gauging its measurements. I supposed that, technically, it was feasible to share the bed. I'd take the outside, so that if someone had to be rudely dumped on the floor in the middle of the night. "Okay," I sighed. "Whatever." Every muscle in my body whimpered in delight.
"You poor thing," she continued, "you've been hobbling around like an old man all day." Mom reached over and turned off the TV, then leaned and pushed at me. "Lay down; time for some scratchy-back."
My god, scratchy-back! I acquiesced without a sound, dutifully rolling over on my stomach. My spine rippled with the memories of endless hours of pleasure. It'd been years since some antediluvian part of my brain had firmly announced: Only sissy boys let their Moms rub their backs! What a bunch of hormonal foolishness, I thought melting against the mattress in anticipation. Not only could Mom scratch without a single tickle, but then she had baker's hands-she could turn the crustiest stale lump of muscle back into fresh pliant dough.
"Don't you remember" she tugged a tent at my back-"shirt off."
"Sorry," came my muffled reply. I crossed my arms under me and reached for the hem, rolling the shirt over my head without otherwise moving. Skin-to-skin, to begin her voice sang in a back part of my brain.
"Nice trick, Davey," she patted my bare back. My skin undulated at the touch.
Then Mom set to work. She hadn't had me to practice on, but she certainly had not lost her touch. I was aboard the Bullet Train to heaven. My back rippled like a cat's, my butt twitching as if I had a tail.
"Mmmm, this feel good"
I sort of groaned.
"You haven't let me do this in a long time."
Her hands were masterful. I was too gone to reply.
"Forgot what you've been missing" she hummed.
Mom's hands soon had the firm mountainous terrain of my back reduced to a lowlands, a vast flat of quivering mud. When she hit the small of my back I was ready to take the pen from St. Peter and sign the guestbook. The problem, then, was that down there the sore muscles always continued down into your butt, the waistband of whatever you happened to be wearing being a line of demarcation; satisfaction could never be complete.
This time, though, Mom's hands continued down over the fabric. The natural line of progression to the backs of my thighs, and eventually my calves. My toes were turning with the full pleasure of it all. She took her fingers all the way to play with the toes.
Then she gave a light slap to my ass. "Okay, time to turn over. Gotta get the fronts of your thighs."
Those broad muscles could always benefit from a rub-down, but no way could I roll over! All that sensuality, and being pressed against the mattress. I had a big problem I didn't want to share with Mom.
"That's okay," I grunted, "that's fine. That's good enough."
"Oh no, come on! Frankly, if I start a job, I finish it. Full satisfaction guaranteed, and all that."
"Oh no, no, no. That's enough, thank-you."
Mom playfully poked her fingers into my sides. "Roll over, or else!"
"No-o-o! You don't understand!" I shrieked into the pillow. "I've got a problem."
Too late. Mom's fingers zapped me in the symmetrical spots at the sides of my ribs, and I became a powerless sack of giggles. She rolled me over with ease, then sat fully down straddling one of my thighs.
The front of my gym trunks wasn't just a large bulge, it was a bulge that visibly pulsated, the plum of the head poking out from the waistband just to make everything perfectly clear.
Mom considered the sight with a slight frown. The seconds lingered like hours, allowing me to fully cherish the most horrifying moment of my life. I thought I was going to be sick. I truly wanted to die, to die and be buried with my disgrace.
The frown on her face deepened into a scowl. "Frankly, Davey, I do understand."
She understood that the sweet baby boy she'd given birth to had grown up into a monster!
But then I felt a finger trace up the full length of the bulge, tightening the fabric even more. A whole handful of fingers met twirling around the plumpness of the head.
Oh. my. god.
"It's not that difficult a problem," Mom proclaimed in a low voice. "Frankly, it's one of the easiest problems in the world to dispense with." Her other hand arrived, tugging down at the elastic band until the first could get a firm grip on my shaft. My shorts were somehow shunted down below my knees.
Slowly, surely, Mom pumped my cock. "I refuse to believe you don't know how to take care of this yourself."
"I do," I groaned.
With that, she let go. "Okay." Leaving me, apparently, to my own self- proclaimed devices.
"No," I moaned.
"No what" Mom replied.
No what, indeed. No I didn't want to jerk off in front of her Or more to the point, no I didn't want her wonderful hand replaced by my clumsy own
"No, please don't stop."
I was graced again by her touch. And just the simple touch of someone else was enough to drive me wild. I was blinded by desire. I barely cared that it was Mom doing this to me. I was so grateful that somebody was doing this to me. Hardly anything could register in the shadow of the vast pure pleasure melting my senses. I closed my eyes simply to give in, focus all the more.
I was whimpering.
I was a writhing puddle of nonsense as my orgasm majestically built. Mom must have sense the impending glory; she tightened her grip and jacked all the harder.
Right as I readied to blow, the miracle hand vanished. My cock stood naked, jutting up in the air, swaying in the breeze, a pole without its flag.
I almost started crying.
The lightest brush of a finger against my inner thigh, and I just about jumped through the roof. I opened my eyes to see Mom smiling down at me. Her fingers continued dusting the bare baby-smooth skin of my uppermost legs. Each touch nearly made me come. Every muscle in my body was quivering. So slowly I slid a half-step back from the peak. Then a pinkie finger reached up to give my sack the slightest tap. Mom's smile broadened to show teeth, and then she shot me an evil look.
I was vaguely aware of the warm press of her crotch against my thigh. How where her legs met against my leg, the press of flesh was so hot the meeting seemed damp with sweat.
All her fingers joined in to jostle my balls, those of her right hand eventually leaving, rising, curling again around my cock. She gave a squeeze and I was instantly so thoroughly hard it almost hurt. Gripping me tightly, Mom began pumping me at a leisurely pace, her other hand stroking the whole of my scrotum in a matching rhythm.
Within a minute time slammed on its brakes; the ecstasy of that first load of sperm ground up through my cock at glacial speed. There was no sound, no other motion. Then I was watching it shoot high in the air, describing an arc. It splattered against Mom's cheek. With the impact, everything shifted back fast and loud.
Mom was giving giggly little huffs as the fist around my cock turned into a blur. Her other hand was a cocoon around the whole of my scrotum, squeezing and tugging while I erupted in spasm after spasm. I lay there, nearly in disbelief at the intensity and duration. Squirming and groaning like a run-over dog, like a dog that's gone dreaming.
On the downslide, I sank deep into the bed with exhaustion. There didn't seem to be a functioning muscle left in my body. All my cognitive processes were fried. Mom sat there beaming down at me. "My goodness." Her one hand gave my balls a gentle little rub, "I bet that felt great!" Then she withdrew that hand, raising it to wipe the milky tear from her cheek. She used her index finger to sweep it down to the corner of her mouth, following in and sucking it clean.
Then she scooped her other hand up the length of my cock until it was free of me. Still clenched, her hand looked like she'd let an ice cream cone melt all over it. I expected her to just smear all the stuff on the sheet, but instead, she bent her head and licked it all off.
This was too much. My cock gave a twitch.
Mom dropped her gaze to my crotch. "I sure made a mess. Didn't I I expect you would have used some tissues or something, right My mess," she looked at me under her brows, "so I better clean it up." She bent down and began working with her tongue.
My cock lurched and strained. This was the closest it'd ever come to a blow-job. I felt the familiar tingle return as Mom lapped me clean. The slight sag to my cock was quickly reversed, and it was soon throbbingly hard.
"David! Don't you know anything Let me be frank with you about this: after you come, you're supposed to get soft."
"I can't help it," I moaned.
"Well, then, maybe I can." Mom seemed to pause in her thinking, then she murmured, "Oh, what the hell." She slid over to the side of the bed and stood up.
Oh, what the hell what I was wondering.
She did a little dance, at the end of which her panties were on the floor. Before I could even think about that, she reached over and finished drawing down my drawers. Then she regained her seat on my thigh, her right hand coming to rest capping my cock.
She wiggled me around and laughed. "I feel like I'm driving a stick- shift."
While I was glad Mom was having such a good time, I really couldn't think of any response.
She giggled some more. "So, how often do you take this guy for a drive anyway"
"I don't know," I grunted.
"Okay. Let's rephrase that. When was the last time you masturbated Tell the truth!" Mom took her hand away and left me standing alone.
"Oh, please! Oh god. Last weekend, I guess."
"Really" she looked impressed. "Such restraint!" She let one hand lightly brush my cock while the other slunk between her legs. "Frankly, I like to play with myself nearly every night."
"Well," I squeaked, "I've been pretty busy this week."
She leaned down to whisper, "Why do you think I was so quick to hop into the shower this morning" The part of her she'd been touching was sort of rubbing up and down the part of me she'd been touching. "I waited until I heard you go into sleep-breathing. And then when I woke up this morning I was ready for more. You were tossing and turning a lot, but I managed to bring myself off anyway. Are you sure you're being honest"
"I was saving it up. Just in case. You know. The featured presentation. Big Artman on Campus. I thought maybe I might get lucky."
"Lucky" she teased me. "What do you mean by lucky How lucky"
With that, Mom swiveled her pelvis, scooted back a bit, and suddenly my cock was sinking into a sheath of sensations more wonderful than anything I had ever imagined.
The room went silent but for my suspiration of pure pleasure. Mom sat there on top of me, holding me in the warm, nearly liquid clench of her sex, gazing down at me with a defiantly proud look.
"So," she eventually spoke, breaking the spell, "I was right. You are cherry."
"How. how. how," I stammered.
She reached down and stroked the side of my face. "Because your cheeks are cherry-red and your eyes are cherry-round."
At that, Mom sat back, her eyes closing as she lifted herself slightly up and down my shaft. I lay there beneath her, arms at my side, completely still except for a fluttering in my hands. I. didn't know what to do. Whether I should do anything.
"God, Frank, this feels great."
"Very nice," Mom murmured. Her eyes opened to slits. "I'll just do you, if you'd like. But frankly, you are allowed to participate. You might find that makes it all the more exciting." She gave her head a toss, her hair describing a breeze, then started swaying side to side. "Don't be shy, David. We are having sex-you can touch me all you want. Feel free to touch me anywhere you want."
My hands stood up on their fingertips, and like trembly spiders began to crawl up along her thighs to her waist. Mom smiled, glanced down at her front, then looked at me with a false pout. "Stupid shirt."
She thrust out her chest, and pop went that button, loosed from the last bit of thread. It flew through the air and rattled away somewhere on the floor. Neither of us looked to see where it had landed. "Superboobs!" Mom gave a chuckle. "Guess we won't be needing that button anymore anyway."
While I could see much more of her breasts, they weren't completely spilling out. Mom leaned down, accentuating her generous cleavage, and made a breathy request. "Davey, why don't you undo the rest"
I. I. I nodded.
There were only the two or three at the very bottom, but it took me ages to get them. Part of it was how peculiar it was trying to manipulate buttons from this foreign angle. Mostly, though, my fingers seemed to have swollen to the size of bratwursts.
When at length I was done, Mom shook her shoulders; the shirt slid down her arms, then she pulled her hands free of the sleeves. I lay there in shock. The brief glimpses of my old sort-of girlfriend had hardly registered in my memory. The occasional sight of strangers in scanty clothing had given me no clue. The innumerable bosoms I'd seen in dirty magazines had done nothing to prepare me for the beauty of the breasts I now beheld. My shock was redoubled as her hands came up to cup their undersides.
"If you think my tits are pretty to look at, you should try playing with them." Her upper lip lifted off her front teeth in a play of a smile. "Especially since I really like it so much." Mom dropped her hands from her breasts to my stomach, where they slithered up to my nipples, the thumbs and forefingers toying and twisting the little nubs.
I followed her example, so amazed that I actually had my hands on a pair of real breasts.
"Very nice. Use your other fingers to stroke their fullness. Stop and squeeze the whole of them lightly if you like. That always feels so good."
After a few minutes, Mom pulled up and leaned down, still keeping the last of my cock inside of her while sweeping her breasts across my face, slowing the motion as she crooned, "Suck me, Davey. Suck on me." Her voice deepened to a low whisper, "There's a direct line between my nipples and my pussy-put the phone to your mouth and make me call."
It'd been how many years since I'd had a nipple in my mouth Still, some part of my backbrain knew exactly what to do. Mom purred, holding my head with her hands as she stretched out as best she could, trying to sink more of my cock back inside her. She began to shiver all over, making mewling sounds deep in her throat. Then with a sharp cry she jerked down, driving her cunt completely around me, mashing her breasts against my chest as she chewed on my shoulder, her whole body seized up in spasms.
Gradually Mom's body softened, forming on top of mine as some warm liquid lump of flesh. When her breathing evened out, she pushed herself up on her arms. Staring straight in my eyes from inches away, her head sort of wobbled in pronouncement. "Frankly, David, I haven't come that hard in ages." She slowly reared back up on her haunches. "I hope you don't mind, but right now I really feel like fucking your lights out."
She made it sound almost like some sort of torture.
And it was. Exquisite torture. She slowly slid herself all the way up, lingering, her pussy lips sort of kissing the crown of my cock, and then-fast!-she slammed all the way down. U-u-up u-up up; then down! About every fourth or fifth time down, she just sat there, her cunt like a fist pumping my cock.
But then Mom's breath started coming hard and fast and she lowered herself again, her mouth all over my face, her tongue a frantic animal.
"Grab my ass," she hissed, "grab my ass and squeeze it hard!"
I did just that, over and over as her pelvis gave up the distance and just ground against mine, over and over, my tongue as feral as hers, lips colliding in desperation, over and over, nipping teeth and fingers gripping, over and over until screams filled the room and we both went over.
We lay there, laughing and sobbing, in a sprawl of limbs, our genitals gasping. Slowly we rolled on our sides, separating only to draw even closer, our arms and legs tangling us together all the tighter.
"My god," Mom whispered, "what was that"
I hadn't recovered my breath, much less my senses, to answer verbally. Instead, I nuzzled my way into the cleft between her neck and shoulder and bit her very lightly. Her entire body shuddered in response.
I drew my face back up close to hers, the breath from my lips on hers. "Frankly, my dear. "
Mom cuddled up tight against me. "Best answer," she murmured, "best answer."