"PAINTING" MOM
Hi, I'm Ben. This is the story about my mother and me. It begins with the familiar return from college and a difficult re-insertion into the home life that I had left four
years earlier and had not been part of except for Christmas holidays and the summer after my first year. Each summer after that I had worked a dream job as part of the crew for a company chartering sailboats in the Caribbean. I did that for the first two months after graduation but, due to the sagging economy, the company was f***ed to let me go. So there I was, on my parents' doorstep, degree in hand and a few hundred bucks in my pocket, and no job prospects whatsoever. So much for my degree.
I guess Mom and I were both a little surprised by each other. I hadn't been back to the west coast since the past summer so it had been more than a year since we'd seen each other. The deep tan caught Mom by surprise, probably because each time she'd seen me at Christmas it had had four months to wear off from the previous summer. Also, I was wearing summer garb — shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves torn off — so my lean, twenty-two year old frame clearly showed the healthy lifestyle I had been living.
Looking at Mom, I could see that she had been making changes of her own. The Simon and Garfunkel tune, The Boxer, wafted out of the living room. Mom was wearing some kind of loose, hippy, tie-dyed long shirt over a pair of almost shredded jeans, an outfit straight from the seventies. Her hair, normally just brushing her shoulders, had been allowed a few more inches of freedom. In addition to the extra length, it was much bushier, its wavy blonde and reddish strands creating a tawny took befitting a younger woman ready for fun. Other than that, Mom looked much the same: a slender woman not much more than five feet tall with a nice figure despite her aversion to strenuous exercise.
We both laughed in pleasant surprise.
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming so I could pick you up?" Mom admonished me as the taxi pulled away.
"I wanted to surprise you," I said.
Actually, I didn't want to be a bother. I was kind of bummed out showing up at home almost broke. Truth be known, if I could have found a job, I wouldn't have come home.
"Well, you did that." Mom suddenly jumped up and kissed me again. "I'm so happy to see you!"
Mom turned around and led the way into the house.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"Starving," I said. I wasn't really but I knew Mom would want me to eat something and it would take the pressure off conversation if she was busy doing something and my mouth was full.
"Take your bags up to your room while I make you something to eat," she said. "It's just the way you left it, and come down right away to tell me what you've been doing. You can unpack later."
As I turned to go up the stairs, I cast a last glance at Mom's retreating figure. What had happened to my insurance-rep Mom? Where were the conservative business suits and crisp skirts and blouses? A tie-dyed shirt, faded denims and old tennis shoes? What had happened on the home front in the last year?
My apprehensions at coming home were over-ridden by my curiosity. I did just what Mom said; I tossed my suitcases into my old room and rushed downstairs. I had to find out what had caused this change in my mother.
Tomato sandwiches and a large glass of milk were already waiting for me on the kitchen table and Mom was just setting a teapot down with a tall, slim mug decorated with some kind of pseudo-medieval design in pastel colors.
Mom asked me what I'd been up to right away but when I started eating she slipped into telling me all about what she'd been doing. Evidently, she had had a life changing experience that led her to quit the insurance business to take up sculpting full time. Dad wasn't too happy about the loss of income but she had put her foot down and refused to change her mind. She was going to become a sculptor, a professional one, whether he liked it or not. However, she admitted that she felt under pressure to sell some of her works now that it had been almost a year since she'd quit her job.
I finished the first sandwich and Mom insisted I tell her what I'd been doing, interrupting me as soon as I started to apologize for not being able to come to my graduation because they just couldn't afford to fly across the country.
"I really feel guilty about that," she said, stretching her hands out to hold mine, the one not holding a sandwich.
It didn't take long for me to tell her about the sailing charters, something I'd already told her and Dad about before, and how the economic downturn had resulted in the failure of the company. I had the impression Mom just wanted to hear my voice.
"So, here I am, broke and without a job," I laughed, picking up the other half of the second sandwich.
"Oh, dear," Mom said.
Before I took a bite, I asked Mom what had happened to make her quit her job. I was curious but also wanted to change the subject from my situation. I had already dwelled on it enough by myself. Mom launched into a story about not feeling well for a long time, always feeling tired, and a list of other symptoms. I listened half-heartedly until she said the dreadful word.
"Cancer?" I blurted, my mouth full of half-chewed bread and tomatoes.
Mom nodded.
"Cancer?" I repeated.
"Yes, breast cancer."
My eyes dropped to Mom's breasts, a rather insensitive thing to do right after a woman has just told you she has breast cancer.
"I still have them," Mom laughed, seeing the direction of my gaze.
I blushed profusely and looked down at the sandwich in my hand.
Mom laughed out loud. "Don't feel bad. Every single man that hears about it does that. All my friends' husbands, even the ones who heard about it through their wives, as soon as they see me, they look at my chest. We all get quite a kick out of it. Jenny said, 'Now we know what the girls at Hooters feel like'."
I didn't recognize Jenny as one of Mom's regular friends. "Who's Jenny?"
"Oh, just a girl I met at the clinic. She's about your age, very pretty but a little different."
"She had cancer?" I asked.
Mom ignored the question. "Come on," she said, reaching out to grab my sandwich-free hand. "Look."
As soon as I looked up, Mom retrieved her hand and used both to heft her breasts.
"See...healthy as a horse."
"What about the cancer?" I asked, my eyes staying on Mom's breasts, nicely show-cased by the curved brackets of her hands.
"False alarm," Mom said as if it was a little thing but I noted a trace of relief that belied her light-hearted dismissal. Mom had obviously been scared silly, the little twitch in her cheek betraying her true feelings. She must have been afraid for her life.
"So you're ok?" I persisted.
"Absolutely," Mom banged her hand flat on the table for emphasis. "But your Dad...now, I'm not sure he's alright."
"Why?"
"Well, all these changes have upset him, especially me wanting to be a sculptor."
"Sculptress," I corrected her. I have no idea why I said that.
"Sculptress. I like the sound of that. Anyway, changes happened and your Dad is having a hard time dealing with it. He thinks things should have gone back to the way they were as soon as we heard the good news. He just doesn't realize what a life-changing experience it is to hear that awful word. It changes everything. Nothing is the same and there's no going back."
Mom reached out to grasp my hand again, this time holding it between both of hers. She looked me seriously in the eye.
"You understand, don't you."
I nodded, pausing with the last bit of sandwich inches from my mouth. "Of course," I said. "Everything's different."
Mom released my hand. "It's amazing, actually. I feel so alive now. I feel like I know what's important and what's not but Ken just doesn't get it.
"He'll come around, Mom."
I popped the last of the sandwich into my mouth and watched Mom slowly shake her head.
"I don't know," she said. "I just don't know."
I cast my eyes down to Mom's medium-sized breasts and noticed something else that was different. Mom was wearing a regular t-shirt under the tie-dyed shirt but that was all. For the first time in my life, I really saw my new mother, the braless one.
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"You won't find anything around here to make a career out of," Dad said the same thing for the third time using different words.
"I know, Dad. I get it. I'm just going to get my shit together for a couple of months and then get my name out there."
"Get your shit together? That's just great. Your mother's finding herself and you're 'getting your shit together'. Perfect. Just perfect."
"Dad, I need a stable address and somewhere I can get steady access to the internet. And, frankly, a bit of a rest. I'll find something, probably in LA. Until then, I'm going to help Mom."
"Doing what? Stirring mud so she can make statues out of it?"
"No, I'm going to build a website so she can display her stuff and sell it. You should see it. Some of it's pretty good and will probably sell in the city."
"I have seen it and she has tried to sell it at every fair and market around here for almost a year. She hasn't made a hundred bucks."
"She said she's sold about a thousand."
"Well, a thousand then, but she's spent five grand on that studio out back and all that crap for making figurines."
"Statues," I corrected my father. "They're miniature garden statues."
"Whatever."
"Dad, she's had a big shock."
"We've all had a shock but it's time to move on, get back into the swing of things." Dad stopped walking and ran his right hand through his hair, then released a long sigh. "I know, Ben. I know. It's just that...well...I thought she would be getting back to normal but it doesn't look like she's going to, or even wants so. I don't know what to do," Dad lamented, his exasperation evident.
"Just give her some room," I suggested.
"Room? Room? I given her all the room in the world and all she's done is go further off track."
"Maybe she really needs to go in a different direction, Dad. It happened to her. The cancer happened to her, not to us."
"Yeah, well it affects all of us. I don't know how much more of this I can take." Dad ran his hand through his hair again. "All our friends are talking about it. She's doing nude statues, you know. Have you seen them? And that's not the half of it."
I ignored his question. In fact, I hadn't seen them but suspected they were underneath the tarp in the far corner of Mom's studio.
"How about you give her a while longer, maybe another two or three months?"
"Two or three more months?" Dad looked at me, stunned.
"Yeah, a couple of months or so. I'll get a website up and send some emails off and we'll see what happens. I think people will be interested in her sculptures and if they're not, well maybe Mom will realize sculpting has to be a hobby and she'll go back to work."
I felt guilty stringing Dad along. I didn't think Mom was ever going to return to work, not as an insurance agent anyway, but the carrot worked—the one about sales rather than returning to work as I thought.
"You really think people in the city might buy that stuff."
"There's the possibility. Yeah, I think so."
I wasn't convinced but I needed Dad to think there was a chance so he'd give Mom a breather. She needed it.
"Ok, son. Two months then."
"Three, Dad. Three."
"Ok, three."
Dad walked away with a spring in his step.
, you're making me self-conscious," Mom complained.
She was washing a few dishes by hand while I finished my cereal. As she
scrubbed the dishes, my eyes were drawn to the green tank top she was
wearing or, more to the point, the tantalizing movement underneath that
made the material so interesting to watch. I just couldn't believe my
mom didn't wear a bra. This was my third day at home and Mom hadn't worn
one yet. She wore t-shirts, loose blouses, and tank tops but never a
bra.
Misinterpreting the reason for my attention, Mom added, "They're fine. I
only have the one lump and it hasn't grown and there aren't any new
ones."
My face reddened. Whenever that happens to me, trying to stop it makes
it worse. I tried to hide it by looking down and scooping Honey Nut
Cheerios into my mouth. "Whatever you say, Mom."
It was definitely better that she believed I was worried about her
health than the truth, that is, that I was ogling my own mother's tits. I
slurped down the last of the cereal and put the bowl on the counter,
then returned to finish my coffee.
"You should quit drinking that stuff," Mom said. "You'll end up like your father, all antsy and uptight."
I laughed. She had Dad pegged alright. Mom cleaned my bowl and pulled
the plug out of the drain. Immediately, she picked up a dish towel,
dried her hands and then started on the dishes in the rack. My eyes
followed her as she turned to put a glass away in the far cupboard. I
barely managed to look away before she turned back to get another glass
but kept my eyes suitably averted while she dried it. When she turned to
put it away, my gaze locked onto her buns again. Mom had a great
bottom, nicely lifted and outlined by the jeans. They may be old and
faded, but they were designer none the less and made to highlight a
woman's best feature, at least, the best for some women.
And Mom was one of those women. Her butt sloped gradually away from her
waist to end in two beautiful lumps that looked like someone had filled a
couple of longish balloons with water, held them over an edge, and
covered them with denim. The bulk of the weight swelled out at the
bottom and. As she walked, her ass swayed and the jeans tightened
alternately over each cheek. Mom had remarked that her ass was getting
fat, critically eyeing the way it jutted out more than it had a few
years ago, but to me it was fulfilling its destiny, assuming a
near-perfect form, the pinnacle of female assery. But Mom was the
sculptor and that's why all her statues, which were all of women, sat in
various poses. Not one was standing. It was a shame because I knew
there were cretans out there like me that would gladly buy a statue
adorned with a butt like Mom's.
Yeah, Mom used herself as a model for her sculptures. She had a large
mirror set up in her studio and she looked at herself, striking a
particular pose, as she created each new work. She must have put hours
and hours into it to have made all the statues sitting around the
studio. I hadn't seen the ones under the tarp, which I suspected were
the nudes that Dad had referred to. I hoped that one day Mom would show
them to me since I knew they had to be mirror images of her.
"If you're going to make a website, you'd better get a closer look at my
stuff," Mom said, folding the towel and hanging it over the oven door
handle. "Should I put them out on the lawn so you can take pictures, or
would the patio be better?"
"Either way. It doesn't matter."
My eyes betrayed my dirty mind, dropping to Mom's chest even though I was strongly willing them to remain focused on her face.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Ben. Here."
Mom took two quick strides toward me and, standing in front of my chair,
grabbed my hand and pulled it up to the side of her breast. I was
shocked as the soft yet firm flesh filled my hand. Mom pushed my hand
underneath, guiding my finger to a small, hard spot part way but not
quite in the middle of the underside of her breast.
"See? It's quite small and it's benign. It's nothing to worry about."
I was stunned. I was sitting there, looking up at Mom's breast, resting
in my hand and hers, reveling in the sensation of its warmth and weight,
and the perfect curvature of its globular form. Despite my mental
effort, there was a stirring in my loins.
"Come on, stand up."
Mom pulled me up with her free hand, then used it to guide my other mit to her left breast.
"See? Nothing there."
Mom rubbed my hand in a small semi-circle under her other breast.
"Nada. All clear. Nothing to worry about."
Mom dropped her hands and, reluctantly, I let mine fall away too.
"It doesn't hurt to check," I mumbled.
"That's true, and I check all the time. Now, let's get down to business."
Mom swept out the patio door and headed for her studio at the far end of
the yard. A few seconds later, I jolted into action, following her, my
eyes firmly on the tick-tock, tick-tock action of her jeans. I had to
rearrange myself before we got to the studio. I don't know what was the
matter with me but I couldn't keep my eyes off Mom's body.
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Moving the statues out ready to take pictures, I discovered something
else about Mom's new life. There were several bottles of wine in the
cupboard in the cupboard near where she sat to shape the new statues.
She saw me make the discovery and simply remarked, "'Sometimes it helps
my creative juices get going."
I shrugged. It wasn't really any of my business. We hauled all of Mom's
finished pieces out into the yard, all except for the ones under the
tarp. I took pictures and then put them in a more orderly fashion at one
end of the studio except for the best ones which I placed around the
patio. If we managed to get someone to visit, they would be the first
ones to be seen.
I stayed up to the wee hours of the morning that night getting a basic
website up and running. It was noon before I got up. Mom was working in
her studio. I made myself a cup of coffee and wandered out there,
standing in the doorway for several minutes before she became aware of
me. She paused to review her progress, picking up a glass of wine to sip
as she eyed it critically. Putting the glass down, Mom arched her back
and held her arms high, then bent her elbows so her hands could stretch
her fingers along the back of her neck, her breasts thrust wonderfully
tight against her cotton shirt. She turned to face me, smiled and let
her arms drop slowly to her sides.
"Oh, good morning sl**pyhead."
The sun shining through the window cast a bright slash across Mom's face
but it couldn't compete with the sparkle in her eyes. Clearly, she
thoroughly enjoyed what she was doing. If sculpting could do that, it
was well worth it. I had to find a way for Dad to see how much Mom loved
it.
"Hey, I have an excuse. I was up all night working on your website."
"Really?" Mom's smile widened and her face brightened even more, if that was possible. "Can I see it?"
"Anytime," I said, sweeping my arm toward the house in a wide guesture to show the way and spilling my coffee in the process.
Mom giggled. "Go get your breakfast started and I'll join you in a
minute... for lunch," she laughed. "Then we'll see your new creation."
Mom sat across from me with a plate of fruits and vegetables she had
pulled out of the fridge. I was eating Honey Nut Cheerios again and
feeling a bit guilty about it. Mom was wearing a pair of black pants
smeared with sculpting stuff and a white blouse similiarly streaked with
clay. That, however, wasn't where my attention was drawn. The blouse
was unbuttoned way down, so far that Mom's breasts threatened to spill
out every time she lifted her hand to put a carrot in her mouth. She
smiled when she saw where I was looking.
"I checked them this morning. They're A-OK," her smile widened.
I was surprised that my face didn't go red. I mumbled, "Ok."
Amazing. I had just stared at my mother's tits without any adverse
repercussions. She even seemed to take it as a mark of my love for her
that I was so worried rather than a lecherous leer. I made a pact that I
would endeavor to be obviously worried at least once a day, if not
more.
After lunch, we went upstairs to look at the website. I had created a
page listing all her pieces with associated email links identifying the
work if someone was interested. I didn't have enough information to
create a proper shopping cart but could do that later if this first bit
produced any results. I had put the photos in place but needed names and
a short description for each piece. Mom proved to be excellent at
dreaming up catchy names and artsy bits to say about them. It came
naturally and it dawned on me that this was what she was thinking when
each piece was created. She was simply recalling how she felt during
that process. I marveled at the inspired look on her face while this
happened, though I must admit, my eyes strayed downward several times to
appreciate the heart she had put into it too. Mom's shirt was open to
just below where her breasts swept off her chest and the sides were
alternately covered and revealed, sometimes in quick succession but
other times mostly covered and then mostly exposed. I even managed to
glimpse the side of her right nipple several times.
Mom was ecstatic when we finished and asked when the first sale was likely to happen.
"It will take a while Mom, maybe a week or two before the site even gets noticed. We have to market it first."
Mom responded with a simple, "Oh," but quickly recaptured her enthusiasm. "Well, I should get back to work."
She started to get up, then turned back to face me, twisting her chair toward me a little.
"I know you're still worried about me, sweetheart, but I really am ok."
I started to protest but Mom interrupted. "I saw that you were worried a few times."
I guess staring at Mom's tits was evidence of me being 'worried'.
"Look, honey. Would it make you feel better if I checked myself several
times a day? It isn't necessary, but would it make you feel better?"
I nodded as if greatly relieved. I had better act really worried or I would sure as hell be in deep shit.
Mom pulled her shirt apart, almost exposing her right tit in its
entirety. She felt underneath, her fingers searching for and finding the
little lump. I stared at her exposed nipple which, as Mom's fingers
lifted her breast, pushed magically upward. My mouth dried and I found
it difficult to breathe. I guess I looked pretty anxious along with
sucking in my breath because Mom reacted right away. She sat up straight
and smiled encouragingly at me.
"Would it make you feel better to check it yourself, honey?"
I looked into Mom's face, thankful for my slow comprehension and the blank look it provided for my face to wear.
"Check it myself?" I finally managed to say, afraid to believe what I thought I was hearing.
"Yes. Here." Mom grabbed my hand, as she had the day before, and placed it on her breast. "Go ahead, honey."
My fingers tentatively closed around Mom's beautiful globe, capturing
the meatiest part, and slid underneath in search of the little lump. I
wasn't as adept at finding it as Mom and she had to interrupt my search.
"It's here, honey," she said, guiding my finger to the right spot. "See how little it is? It's even hard to find."
Mom pulled my hand away in hers. A sense of disappointment welled up in
me but it was squashed by the sheer joy of handling Mom's tit and the
knowledge that this could be a daily event if not more often. I was
thrilled. I was in heaven. Could it get any better?
"Here, honey. Check the other one to satisfy yourself it's ok too."
Mom dragged my hand under her shirt to her other breast and held it
there. Immediately, I slipped my fingers around its orbit, gently
searching for telltale little bits of hardness. I couldn't find any but
Mom didn't interrupt me this time, instead letting me check longer to
assure myself that she was safe. The feel of her skin made my fingers
tingle, a sensation that ran up my arm and made it tremble.
"Well, I guess I'm good to go until tonight," Mom joked as she got up to leave.
"Until tonight," I repeated, not meaning anything.
"Tonight," Mom repeated. "I usually check myself before going to bed."
Belatedly, I turned to watch her go but only managed the briefest
glimpse of her shapely bottom. Could women get lumps there, I wondered. I
turned to the computer and opened Google.
Mom came downstairs and presented herself to me in the living room that night after she and Dad had gone upstairs to go to bed.
"I almost forgot about my check-up," she explained her reappearance.
She stood expectantly in front of me in her bathrobe, still cinched tight by a bow in the terry cloth belt.
I got up and stood close to her. Mom smiled but didn't make a move to
take my hand like she had before, or to offer her breasts for
inspection. I glanced up the stairs.
"Your father's in bed," Mom said.
"Oh," I responded. Tentatively, I stretched out my hand and tried to pull the lapels of Mom's robe apart without success.
"You have to undo the belt, silly."
"Oh."
I pulled one end of the belt, expecting it to come completely undone but
was left in a knot as often happened when I rushed to get my running
shoes off.
"Damn," I muttered.
Mom giggled.
I struggled with the knot while Mom waited. Nervously, I glanced several
times up the stairs but Mom didn't say anything, nor did she look
impatient.
Finally, I got the bl**dy thing undone and pulled Mom's robe apart.
Underneath, she wore a long nightgown with a long V open to her waist
that was held together by three sets of laces, the uppermost already
undone. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to check through the thin
material or try to get my hand in through the top. I debated for several
seconds while Mom continued to wait patiently, then abruptly tugged the
end of the second lacy bow. It came apart easily. There was now plenty
of room for my hand to slip inside but I moved to the final bow instead,
picking up its ends in my trembling fingers, now overly eager upon the
realization that Mom was going to let me get inside the nightgown. Could
I undo the whole thing? Mom's smile widened but I still chickened out.
I released the last set of laces and moved my hand up. With a final
glance upstairs, I slipped my hand under Mom's nightgown onto her right
breast. I knew where the lump was now and went directly to it, grunting
in satisfaction that it was still small, but then moved on, ostensibly
searching with prodding fingers for other lumps. I felt Mom's right
breast for as long as I thought I could get away with it before moving
to the equally exquisite left and checked it out for just as long,
managing to brush my palm over Mom's erect nipple.
When I was done, Mom said, "Thank you, sweetheart," and re-tied the
laces, muttering under her breath as she did so, "It's nice to see at
least one man in this house concerned about my health." Then, she smiled
sweetly, leaned forward to give me a kiss, and said, "Nighty, night,"
like she used to when I was little. As she climbed the stairs, she
cinched her robe up tight.
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The next day, I asked about the sculptures hidden under the tarp in the
corner. Mom hadn't heard me step into the studio so I was able to watch
her preen in front of the mirror, arching her back, pushing her arms up
and bending them so she could play with the hair behind her neck, and,
best of all, thrusting her breasts upward. She twisted her torso to and
fro and glanced often between her refection and the piece she was
sculpting. I startled her when I spoke.
"Can I see them?"
"Oh, Ben. You gave me a start for sure. See what?" Mom's lashes dipped. Had she glanced down at her chest?
"The ones you're hiding from me." I nodded toward the corner.
"Oh, those. I'm not hiding them," she said, defensively.
"Then, I can see them?" I walked toward the tarp.
"No, Ben. Don't."
I stopped. "Why, what's so terrible about them. If they're not up to
snuff, we should move them to make room for the stuff you're doing now.
It's great."
I started for the corner again.
"They're not duds, they're nudes," Mom explained.
I was astonished. "Nudes?"
"Yes, nudes. Well, bare-breasted, anyway." Mom looked down and blushed.
"You don't want me to see them because they're bare-breasted? Mom, I'm twenty-two." I started to move again.
"Wait. It's just that, it's just...well, they're of me."
"Mom, they're just statues."
"I know, but still."
"Mom, I you let me check your breasts for lumps last night, the real ones, not replicas."
"I know but that's a medical thing. This is different."
"Ok," I put up my hands, relenting.
Somehow, it didn't seem appropriate now to ask Mom if I could check her
breasts which is what I'd come out to the studio hoping to do. I hung
out for a bit, then quietly slipped away. I think Mom was relieved to
see me go.
I was surprised when Mom slipped downstairs that night to present
herself to me again. She wore an enigmatic smile the whole time I
loosened and parted her robe and also while I slipped the second lace
apart. This time, I quickly moved to the third and last bow and undid it
too. Mom gave no indication of whether she approved or disapproved. As
soon as it was done, I spread Mom's nightgown apart, peeling it back to
her arms. I didn't need to open it that wide but Mom didn't object. My
mouth dropped open at the unimpeded beauty of her perfectly shaped
breasts jutting with surprising firmness from her chest. I slipped my
hands over them, both at the same time, fingers first, followed by
sliding palms, a whole hand check-up. My fingers strayed lightly all
around Mom's tits before I used my palms to press them against her
chest.
"I did a little reading," I explained. "You're supposed to flatten them so the smaller lumps will show."
This was bullshit of course which I suspect Mom knew but I felt I needed
to provide an explanation and that was the best I could come up with.
Squishing them for a mammary exam was one thing but squashing them with
your palms was quite another. Still, Mom let me get away with it. She
let me check her out for the longest time yet and when I was finished
and stepped back, I thought that Mom's nipples looked more stimulated
than when I had started but I couldn't be sure because Mom closed her
nightgown quickly.
When she leaned forward to kiss me, she whispered, "I guess I'm ready for your father, now."
Those words reverberated around my skull for hours that night, 'ready
for your father now'. Was she teasing me? I pictured her presenting her
stiff nipples to my father, nipples I had prepared, the lucky bastard. I
strained my ears for the sound of love-making but I didn't hear
anything definitive which both pleased and disappointed me. Eventually, I
satisfied myself by rubbing my dick until I spilled my seed in my
shorts.
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The next day, Mom wore the old designer jeans again, topped by a loose
shirt. The shirt had been buttoned right up until Dad left for work but
when Mom returned from kissing him goodbye at the door, it was half
undone. I tried to initiate a check-up but Mom spurned me, saying she
had to get to work right away. When I tried again at lunch time, she
flatly refused, saying that once a day should be enough. I was crushed.
What had I done? She seemed to be okay with my extended check-up the
night before, even pleased, and possibly excited. Was that it? Had I
crossed a boundary that betrayed the sexual nature of my 'medical'
examination? I hoped not.
Later that afternoon, Mom called me out to the studio. She was in the corner, holding one end of the tarp.
"Help me move these, will you Ben?"
I moved quickly to comply, not questioning her change of heart. A dozen
miniature statues were revealed, all of them of a woman in various
sitting poses, mostly with an arched back and uplifted arms and breasts,
and hair that fell to barely graze an elegant pair of shoulders
bracketing a sleek neck. The breasts were well-matched to the woman's
slender form and perfectly shaped except for a tiny lump underneath the
right breast, almost like a flaw in workmanship, or a signature.
"Mom, these are great. We've got to get them on the website right away."
"Oh, no. These aren't for sale."
"Not for sale? You're k**ding?"
"I couldn't. It would be too embarrassing."
"Mom, these will sell. The website isn't getting any traffic and this will attract lots of viewers."
"But that's so... pornographic."
"Mom, come on. All the great sculptors did nudes. Some of them, nothing
but. You have to let me put these up. You need to earn enough to at
least partly pay for all this or you'll eventually have to go back to
selling insurance."
"Ok, but I don't want see anyone who wants to buy them."
"Don't worry, I'll look after that."
"And the wheeling and dealing."
"And I'll take care of the business too," I agreed.
It was harder getting the names and stories for these new pieces from
Mom but I was glad I pushed her. The stories were incredibly touching.
This was good stuff. I took great pain to get the pictures just right
but I wasn't completely satisfied. As an avid amateur photographer, I
wanted the lighting to be just perfect but the conditions weren't right.
Still, I managed to get a sufficiently decent interplay of light and
shadow for each piece to show well.
Mom noted my disappointment so I took great pains to explain it to her
lest she think it reflected her workmanship which was superb. She
understood in the end, leaving the discussion with a portentous comment.
"Too bad you can't put the light and shadow right on the statue. Then it wouldn't matter where you took the pictures."
I worked on the website that afternoon adding a bit about the shock of
cancer and mentioned the tiny lump lest some mistake it for poor
craftsmanship instead of a signature.
---------------------------------------
That night, Mom was late coming downstairs. Given what had happened that
morning and afternoon, I figured the check-ups were over. I was mildly
surprised and greatly relieved when I saw her descending in her robe. I
got up to meet her so stopped in the middle of the living room to wait
for me with that strange smile on her face.
She spoke as I untangled the belt on her robe, "Your father's fallen asl**p already."
The fact that she pointed that out to me made the hair on my arms
tingle. Why had she felt it necessary for me to know that? Perhaps
because I was thinking so hard about that, I was slower than the night
before to get Mom's robe and nightgown undone. When I finally had her
breasts exposed and my hands enveloping them, Mom whispered, "If you're
only going to do this once a day, you'd best do it carefully."
I nodded but didn't look at her for I was already busy checking her
breasts. In the interests of thoroughness, I allowed my fingers to slip
up onto the top of Mom's breasts and even let them brush over her
nipples, which were indeed stiff. My examination turned into an
extended, continuous caress, barely disguisable as anything but. When
Mom finally stopped me, at least five minutes later, we were both
breathing more rapidly and swaying unsteadily on our feet. Mom pushed my
hands away but she didn't step back or f***e me away.
"Did you know women can get lumps on their bottoms too?" I suddenly blurted out.
That had just popped into my head.
"No, really?" Mom whispered, still swaying on her feet, as was I.
"Yeah, especially if you've had a lump on your breast."
This was pure bullshit and I was sure Mom likely knew it as such but I still said it with conviction.
"Have you checked yours?" I asked, my hands already sliding down her shoulders and then jumping to her waist, inside the robe.
"No, I didn't even know about it," Mom replied.
"I better check, then," I mumbled, my hands slipping around the curve of
Mom's waist, sliding easily over the silky material of her nightgown.
Gently, I urged Mom closer to me, pressing my hands into the small of
her back. When she was almost touching me her arms lifted until her
hands clutched my shoulders. I moved my hands lower, palms flat on Mom's
back, sliding down until each was poised at the top of her buttocks. I
paused for a moment, scared to continue without permission, then, when
it didn't come, proceeded anyway.
Oh, what a gentle, erotic slope my hands traveled, a curve as
magnificent as the underside of her breasts and just as perfect. How
magically her buns filled my cupped hands, how sensuous they felt, soft
yet firm, quivering with a life that couldn't be contained. Oh, if only I
could touch them directly, sense their bare skin, I would be in heaven.
I reached the bottom and curled my fingers underneath, testing the heft
of each slightly sagging swell and, sighing, lowering my head to Mom's
shoulder. I squeezed and pulled them closer, bringing Mom into full
frontal contact.
"Ben," Mom whispered.
"Ben," she repeated, more firmly.
"Yes," I replied groggily.
"I think, perhaps, we should finish this tomorrow."
Mom's hands were gently urging me away.
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow."
I brought my left hand up to Mom's waist, preparing to part, but the
right lingered. Slowly, I allowed its fingers to curl completely around
Mom's left buttock until the tips were pressed into the base of the
divide between her cheeks and then, just as slowly, I deliberately
raised my hand, dragging my fingertips up the crevice that stretched
above.
"Ok, tomorrow," I whispered.
Thankfully, Mom wasn't angry. She stretched up to kiss me on the neck,
then lifted higher to kiss me on my ear, her slightly moist lips leaving
a hot trail between.
"Goodnight, baby."
She was gone and I was left with the smell of her hair and her perfume.
It filled my nostrils for hours after that as I dreamed of her and
eventually squeezed my fluid out into my shorts for a second night.
---------------------------------------
"You're not serious?" Mom was aghast. "You don't really think I'm going to let you smear that mess all over me, do you?"
"But you're the model. You look at yourself in the mirror as you work. It has to be on you."
"Why can't you just paint the statues?"
"Two reasons," I explained. "First, nobody wants a painted statue."
"I guess," Mom concurred. "And second?"
"And second," I continued, "it's what you see that counts. You'll see a
different array of light and shadow and that will change what you
create. Don't you see?"
"Yes, Mom," replied, her fingertip in her mouth, eyes narrowing as she thought. "I do see."
Mom stood up. "Go ahead, then, paint me," she said, holding her arms out at her sides.
"Not here, and not wearing all those clothes."
"Where, then? You can't put that on me in the house. It will ruin the floor if it spills."
"Right out there then, on the grass."
"On the grass? I'm not taking my clothes off in the back yard."
"Just your top, and your jeans."
"I don't need to take off my jeans. I only do women sitting."
"Yes, but the tops of the thighs and the sides of the hips are showing. They need to be painted too."
"What if someone comes?"
"Who ever comes here during the day?"
Reluctantly, Mom acquiesced. "Alright, but just down to my bra and panties, or maybe I should put on a bathing suit."
"No, Mom. We don't have time. We need to be finished before Dad gets
home. You can imagine what he'd say if he knew you were painting
yourself."
Mom walked out to the middle of the yard, kicked off her flip flops and
loosened her jeans, then pushed them down her legs. She kicked them off,
undoing the buttons on her blouse and letting it fall to the ground as
she sank to her knees wearing only a brief pair of panties. Not a thong,
mind you, but a nice small triangular pair of black panties with narrow
ears that rose up and over the swell of her hips. The fleshy part of
her ass bulged out a bit under the edge of the black panties.
"What a woman must suffer for her art," Mom chuckled. "Come on, get it over with."
As I started rubbing the mix on Mom's shoulders and back, she barked, "Ugggh. This better work."
I lathered the 'paint' on Mom's shoulders, arms, back, stomach and
thighs, spreading it slowly with my hands and working it into her soft
skin. I left the best parts for last: her breasts, the inside of her
thighs, and the bits closest to her panties in the back. I did her
breasts first because she was used to me touching her there and was less
likely to object to my exploring fingers on that part of her body. By
the time I finished coloring her breasts, Mom's nipples were definitely
erect. I moved to her legs but as my fingers pushed the paint between
her thighs, Mom objected and closed her legs tight.
"Hey, I don't need this stuff there."
"If you don't, you'll be disconcerted by the line that shows. You should have it right over the tops of your thighs."
Mom reluctantly loosened her legs to let me apply the paint. I rubbed it
up and down the length of her inner thighs but was careful not to get
too close to her panties. I sensed that a boundary existed somewhere
around there and that my proximity to it was making Mom a little tense. I
definitely didn't want to spook her so I chickened out on my plans to
smear the stuff over Mom's ass, especially those intriguing bulges at
the bottom.
"Ok, you're ready," I said, standing back to admire my work.
"Well, now we'll see," Mom said, standing.
She walked awkwardly to the studio as if she was covered in mud and I
supposed that's what the stuff felt like as it dried. I stood as quietly
as I could, out of Mom's sight, as she worked on the next piece. She
worked quickly and rarely stopped to examine her body. When she did, she
struck a pose and merely glanced at the mirror rather than twisting and
turning, preening, and peering intently as she usually did. Somehow,
she was seeing immediately what she needed to see. When she was done,
she started on another one right away.
"Ben. Ben!"
I ran to the bathroom.
"Ben! Come here!"
I opened the door, carefully peeking inside, ready to quickly yank my head out.
"Come in. Quickly. And shut the door."
I stepped inside. Mom was in the shower, the sliding door half open, her eyes closed and her hair full of shampoo.
"This stuff isn't coming off and your father will be home soon."
I surveyed at Mom's glistening body. She had the stuff mostly off her
front and the backs of her legs but it still clung to the backs of her
upper arms and all down her back. My eyes drifted to her pelvis, the
swell of her tummy and the tuft of hair below it. If she turned, I would
see my mother's pussy.
"Ben. Get in here and scrub my back."
"What?"
"Get in here. You put it on, now you get it off!"
"Oh, ok."
I scrambled to get my pants and shirt off.
"Leave those on," Mom yelled when I pushed my underwear down. "What are you thinking?"
I nodded, acknowledging my silliness. Mom pulled the shower door wide
open and I stepped in behind her. She reached behind herself to hand me
the soap and a wash cloth. I was staring at Mom's bare ass, the one I
had groped the night before and pounded my poor little dick all night
over. Naked, it was even sexier than I had imagined it to be, firm but
jiggling, the bulgy cheeks clearly separated. I dearly wanted to cup
them in my hands.
"My back, Ben. Scrub my back."
I started rubbing the soap all over Mom's back and following it with the
washcloth, working it in hard. The paint began to come off. When I got
her back done, I searched out bits behind her arms and beside her
breasts that she had missed. Mom had calmed down quite a bit when she
realized the stuff was coming off and stood with both arms stretched up
on the end of the shower wall to brace herself against my rubbing hands.
Her head turned when they slid below her back and onto her slippery
buttocks.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
"Some of the paint dripped down. You've got some here and here," I said,
touching the top of her bum just above her crack and the bottom of each
cheek, the parts that would have been above and below her panties.
"Really? How on earth did that happen?" Mom asked, craning her neck to see but unable to.
"I don't know," I replied, scratching at the area just above her crack,
my scr****g fingertip managing to slip into her delightful crevice.
"Should I get it?"
"Hurry then," Mom said. "Dad will be home soon."
I moved down to scratch at the fleshy bottom of Mom's cheeks. I was in
my glory, rubbing away at Mom's fantastic butt, my head lowered to see
what I was doing. There was, of course, no paint there. Employing both
hands in the interest of getting the job done faster, I managed to pull
Mom's cheeks apart to observe her crinkly bottom hole. Of course, the
pulpy lips below divided by her furry slit didn't escape my attention
either. If wasn't long before Mom had had enough because she pushed
herself away from the wall and abruptly shut off the shower.
Stepping out, she said, "I'll get the rest later. Your father will be here any minute now."
"I managed to get it all," I said, in case she examined herself in her bedroom and found no paint on her butt.
"Good, good," Mom replied, toweling herself hurriedly. "You better get
to your room." She glanced at me as she rubbed herself and I noticed
that her eyes were drawn to my soaking wet underwear and the swollen
cock they contained. "Maybe you should just get back in the shower," she
grinned, and left.
I did as Mom suggested. Of course, I couldn't leave my cock alone. It
was empty when I was done five minutes later and pictures of Mom's wet
cheeks were still floating in front of my closed eyes.
---------------------------------------
Mom didn't come down that night. I waited for hours but finally went to
bed but I couldn't sl**p. I checked the computer and found several
emails requesting more information about the nude statues and their
prices which I hadn't put in because I didn't know what was appropriate.
I was about to answer when one email in particular caught my eye,
offering five thousand dollars in the subject line for a commissioned
work. The message body promised more to follow if they liked the first
one.
Naturally, I read that email with great interest. They — it appeared to
be from a man and a women — had read the bio of Mom that I had put up in
an 'About the Sculptress' page, noting her recent cancer scare. They
wanted to know if Mom would do a commissioned work with the woman lying
down rather than sitting. I responded to the email saying that we were
open to the idea. A response came back within minutes when I was in the
middle of responding to a price request. I left that message to read the
response.
Are you the Sculptress?
No. I'm her son.
The response was immediate.
Her son. How very nice to meet you. Will your mother do the piece we've
requested and would she be interested in further requests? We're willing
to pay more.
I'm sure she will. She is very much the artist and is interested in the
piece more than the money. That's why she let's me look after the
business part. My I ask how much more?
If we like the first, then we're thinking $10,000 per piece. Does that sound reasonable to you?"
What kind of pieces did you have in mind?
I was so excited I could hardly type. I was relieved this exchange
wasn't taking place face to face. I couldn't have kept my cool if it
was.
Several in the prone position and perhaps a few more sitting or lying with a young man son nearby.
The latter would be much more work.
We're willing to offer more for those.
If my mother is willing, will you put down a deposit?
We'll pay up front for the first piece. Please send us the details so we can wire the money to your account.
I couldn't believe it. I replied that I would send the details ASAP and
then responded to the other requests saying that the prices would be
posted soon. I wanted to get Mom to see this right away but it was after
midnight. I had a heck of a time getting to sl**p. I was so worked up, I
didn't even beat off
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