Capítulo 191: My Mom is a Hot Mom
SimonDoom©
Growing up, I never thought my mom was hot.
My friends did. Tucker, one of my best friends, started using that word to describe her when we were sophomores in high school. One day, when he came over to my house, he saw my mom in a bikini sitting by the pool in the backyard. His jaw almost fell off his face. When we went inside the house, and we were sitting around doing nothing in my room, he kept saying, "Randy, your mom is so hot!" It annoyed me to hear him say it, because I didn't like to think of her that way, and I didn't want my friends to think or talk about her that way, either.
I told Tucker it annoyed me, but that didn't stop him. On the contrary, it egged him on. It wasn't just Tucker, either. Mason and Alex said the same thing, over and over and over again. Even though I didn't think of her that way, I spent most of my high school years hearing that I was the guy with the hot mom. My house was the one that my friends always wanted to come over to. I think the main reason was that they wanted to see my mom.
No question about it, my mom was pretty. She was only 21 when I was born, so, as moms went, she was young, and she kept her figure trim and firm by lifting weights and doing yoga at the gym, running several times a week, and playing tennis. Mom, whose name was Inga, was tall and lean but shapely. She had athletic legs, sculpted and lightly muscled. I never asked her, but I guessed, from what I could see on the Internet as a reference point, that her bust size was in the neighborhood of a firm, perky C-cup. I knew that when she had been in high school she'd been voted homecoming princess, and it was easy to see why, with her long, wavy, darkish blond hair, full lips, and bottle-green eyes.
Because of my mom's active and athletic lifestyle, my friends knew that if they hung around long enough at my house there was a good chance they'd see her coming or going in a little tennis skirt, or in running shorts and a tight, nylon top, or in form-fitting yoga pants. After a while, it felt like my friends were timing their arrival at my house to coincide with the best opportunity to catch my mom in a skimpy, sporty outfit.
But I never looked at my mom that way. To me, she always was just mom. And she was a great mom: attentive, loving, supportive, and kind. She had a job in the human resources department of a big company nearby, and she worked there four days a week, but she still found time to do all the usual mom things well: she cooked, she washed the laundry, she kept the house clean, among other things. I always thought my mom was the greatest mom in the world. Despite what my friends said, though, I never thought of her as hot.
Until I turned 19.
When I was 18 years old, and had just been graduated from high school, my parents suddenly separated because my dad cheated on my mom. Dad always had been a good dad to me, but it had been obvious for a while that something was wrong between my parents. Dad was away at the office a lot, and eventually he confessed to mom that he'd been having an affair with his 24-year old secretary. He wanted to leave mom, and he did, abruptly.
Fortunately, my parents were able to negotiate an amicable settlement, and the divorce was granted within 9 months of the separation without too much acrimony. By that time, I was 19 years old. I was enrolled at a local college, and I also worked part-time selling TVs and computers at the local Best Deal store. I'd always known my way around computers, phones, and other devices, and I also knew how to persuade people to do things, so it was a good job for me. I didn't make enough to support myself and put myself through college completely, but it helped a lot to lighten the burden for mom and dad, and it gave me some discretionary income.
After the separation, dad moved out of the house and into an apartment that he shared with his girlfriend. I stayed in the house with mom. It was just the two of us. We lived in a one-story, ranch-style house in a suburban area on the fringe of a large city. My bedroom was on one end of the house; mom's bedroom was on the other. It worked out well for both of us. I got a free room. Mom got someone to keep her company after the separation and to help take care of a house too big for one.
One of the appealing things about the house, for me, was that it was located near the edge of the neighborhood, which abutted an expanse of hills that remained undeveloped. The hills were interlaced with fire roads and dirt trails. I had inherited my mom's fondness for running, so as often as I could I put on my running shoes, exited the house, and headed to the hills to run.
One afternoon, after I had finished my college classes and come home, I went for a run. It was a warm day in early September. It was warm enough that I decided to run without a shirt. I often ran without a shirt when the weather was warm enough; I had been doing so since being a member of my high school's cross-country team. It wasn't an exhibitionist thing; it was just comfortable for me.
I hit the running trail and headed up a steep incline, wearing black nylon shorts, socks, and running shoes. I also wore a GPS watch that would track my time, pace, and distance. My cell phone was velcroed to my right bicep, allowing me to stream music through tiny headphones stuck to my ears. I'd cued up a playlist of songs by Slipknot, one of my favorite bands. I liked to run to the sound of hard, pulsing rock music.
After about twenty minutes my body was covered in sweat. I was running well, my limbs loose and strong. This was my favorite part of the run, the part where I was warmed up but not yet tired. The sun beat down on me in a cloudless sky, but the glare was no problem because of my sunglasses.
The trail on which I ran curved up the hill. I reached the crest with steady effort, and before me lay a smooth, flatter stretch, with some oak trees scattered around.
On the trail before me, I noticed a woman for the first time. She was running too, about 200 yards ahead of me. She was running more slowly than I was, but, still, she was running with grace and vigor. I picked up my pace, estimating I would catch up to her in a few minutes if I kept doing so. As I drew closer to her I saw her more clearly.
I confess I had a mild fetish for women in running outfits. As a former high school cross-country runner, I had been around runners of both sexes for a long time, and I had developed a keen eye for the way shorts and tops hugged and set off a woman's limbs and curves. The woman ahead of me wore blue shorts and a white shirt. The shorts were quite short, with probably no more than a 3-inch inseam, and they fit her snugly, accentuating the length and leanness of her legs. As I drew closer to her from behind, I saw the contraction of her thigh and shin muscles with every step. She was a graceful runner. Not all runners are. Some runners plod. Others run with short, jerky steps. This woman's stride was both fluid and feral, like that of an animal to whom running came naturally.
As I drew still closer to her, I saw her butt more closely. It was pert and round, like a ripe apple. Her hips, though not wide, nonetheless contrasted with the narrowness of her waist. Her little T-shirt didn't fully cover her. As she ran, the bottom hem of her shirt moved up and down, momentarily exposing glimpses of the skin of her back just over the waistband of her little shorts.
Her blondish hair, gathered in a ponytail that poked out from the back of a white cap, flew and bobbed after her as she ran.
I couldn't see her face, but from behind she was nice to look at, and the sight of her spurred me to run faster so I could catch up with her. I picked up my pace. I started rehearsing what I might say to her as I caught up to her. If the front of her looked anything like the back, I thought to myself, she was hot. The word "hot" escaped my lips in a breathy whisper as I ran to catch up with her.
Both of us ran for several minutes like that: her ahead of me, running slowly, and me, running faster and closing the distance between us. I drew closer and closer to her. So far, she had not turned around or noticed me.
When I was about 50 yards from her, I suddenly noticed something. It startled me so much that it almost stopped me cold.
The woman running in front of me was my mom.
At first, I couldn't believe it. But it was true. I had been running after my mom, admiring her and even thinking of her as hot, and I hadn't even realized it was her.
I had seen my mom in running outfits before, as she left the house. But I never had seen her running, out on the road, or on the trails. I hadn't recognized her stride, either. Nor had I recognized this particular running outfit.
Although I almost stopped, I didn't. Instead I kept pace with her. It didn't look like she had noticed me yet. I was able to look at her, running on the trail ahead of me, while she didn't even know I was there.
I just called my mom 'hot,' I thought to myself.
She was hot. I would never have guessed the woman running ahead of me was 40. The first sight of her had hit me with a wave of lust, and the wave lingered and washed over me even after I had recognized her. I was close enough to her now that I could see the cheeks of her butt clenching with every stride under tight-fitting shorts. I saw the thinness of her waist, and the V-shape of her lean but muscular back from waist to shoulders. I felt a twinge of guilt feeling this way. But I also felt the same thrill I got from looking at any sexy woman. It was the first time I had ever looked at my mom this way, and it was both embarrassing and exciting.
I realized it would be weird if I hung back too long running behind her, so I picked up my pace to catch up with her. It didn't take me long.
When I was about 30 feet behind her, I knew she would be able to hear my steps and my breathing, so I called to her.
"Mom! Wait up!"
She slowed and stopped and turned around at the sound of my voice.
"Well, hey there, Randy," she said. "I didn't expect to see you. I thought you were working this afternoon."
She gave me a big smile, full of white teeth. Her eyes were not hidden behind sunglasses, as mine were. She stood half-way turned around toward me, giving me a view of her figure in profile, with her shoulders thrown back and her breasts high and firm, jutting nearly straight from her thin chest. As I closed the distance between us I noticed that although the shorts were cute the t-shirt was a little frayed and ratty looking. I was surprised for a moment that mom would go outdoors in something like that; she usually was careful with her appearance and dress.
"No work today," I replied. "Just school. I finished at 1 so I came home to run. I didn't expect to see you on the trail."
She looked me up and down.
"I didn't realize you liked to run without a shirt. You're looking pretty fit." She poked me in the stomach. "Impressive," she added.
I wasn't very muscular, but I was lean and I had good definition. I knew I could pull off the shirtless look, but it was funny to hear it from mom.
"Thanks, mom," I said. "You're looking pretty hot yourself."
That word again. As soon as I said it, I regretted it. The word hung in the air and an awkward silence followed.
I stammered. "I just mean, you look really good. It's good to see you take care of yourself."
She looked at me with a sly smile and a raised eyebrow.
"But, mom," I followed up. "That shirt. It's seen better days. You need to get yourself some new running gear. Seriously."
She pulled the bottom of the shirt out and away from her torso to run her thumb over a frayed edge. I got a glimpse of her taut belly. I felt a little "zing!" inside at the sight. It was a weird feeling.
"I suppose you're right," she said. Then she let go of it and looked up.
"How about we stop talking about fashion and keep running," she said. "Want to join me?"
"Sounds like a good idea," I said. We resumed running, this time together.
Mom was in a chatty mood, and we talked steadily the next few miles about my schoolwork and about recent movies. We ran in a broad loop of about three miles, at the end of which we were back on the crest of the hill. The sun was getting low on the horizon, and it bathed the hill in a honeyed yellow hue. It was the start of the golden hour, the best time of day to take photographs, as I knew from my limited experience as a photographer. Mom and I stopped for a moment and looked ahead of us and down on our neighborhood below, at the bottom of the hill.
I pulled the cell phone out of the Velcro strap.
"Here, let me take a selfie of us. The light's good," I said.
I drew close to mom and wrapped my left arm around her shoulder. We were both sweaty, me especially so, so I held her lightly. I held the phone out with my right hand and snapped the photo.
I looked at mom with her face toward the setting sun and a scrubby oak tree behind her.
"I'll take one of just you," I said.
"Oh, please, Randy, don't do that," she said. "I'm a mess."
"Well then, you're a hot mess," I said and grinned. She rolled her eyes.
"I insist," I said.
Mom didn't protest again. Instead, she pushed her shoulders back and thrust one leg out and in front of her. She cocked her hip a little and put her hands down just below her hips. Mom acted like she didn't want her picture taken, but she knew how to pose. She smiled without opening her mouth and her eyes shined. Even after running several miles and working up a sweat, mom was a beauty.
Snap.
"There, I'm done," I said. "Thanks for indulging me."
"You're welcome," she said. "Just promise me you'll delete it if I look terrible."
"That's not possible," I said. "Now let's run."
We ran down the hill trail together and back to the house. Before we went inside, mom said that we should do some stretching. I often skipped stretching after a run. I knew I shouldn't skip it, but I figured I was young and limber and I could get away with it.
But mom insisted, and before I could protest she turned around and put her hands against the wall, brought one foot forward, and pushed her bottom out and away from the wall, in my direction.
I needed no more convincing.
We had gone around the side of the house to the backyard, where mom kept a key to the house under a pot. While mom was stretching against the wall, I put my hands against a patio post and stretched my calves. I wrestled with the desire to look at her behind, and I tried to focus on my stretching. But I didn't succeed. Mom was turned the other way, giving me the chance to sneak a peek at her without her knowing. So, I did. The first thing I noticed was the way her firm, round bottom stretched against the thin nylon of her short shorts. Each cheek was perfectly sculpted in blue. Mom's stretching caused the shorts to ride higher on her bottom -- high enough that I could see the inner lining of her running shorts peeking out, and under that I even could make out a sliver of the exposed skin of a butt cheek.
Mom's legs, nicely tanned after a summer full of outdoor activities, stretched lean and long behind her. Mom lifted on her toes, and the motion accentuated her calf muscles. As I mentioned before, I have a lot of experience running with women, and I appreciate the sight of a fit woman. Mom was very fit.
She pushed away from the wall and started to turn toward me so I turned my own head away quickly and focused on my stretch. I didn't want mom to see me ogling her. We spent a few more minutes like that, stretching, my thoughts jumbled and conflicted, and then mom grabbed the key and we went inside.
When we got in the house, we both went to the kitchen. I grabbed a Coke out of the refrigerator, and mom grabbed a bottled water. I popped the tab on my drink and started guzzling it immediately, but mom just held the bottled water up to her forehead with her eyes closed for a few moments.
The air in the house was cool, and it felt even cooler against skin lathered in sweat. The cool air had a noticeable impact on mom. Even under the sturdy fabric of her running bra, her nipples popped out noticeably against the frayed cotton of her shirt. Mom's eyes still were closed as I looked at her. She carried all her weight on one leg, with the other leg bent forward. Her shirt rode up, exposing a band of skin on her tummy again. She looked sexy, I thought to myself, even as I simultaneously told myself I shouldn't be thinking such things.
She opened her eyes and caught me looking at her, so I looked away quickly. It was bad enough that I was starting to look at my mom the way my friends had. It was even worse if she saw me doing it.
When I looked back at her she was checking out the shirt again.
"I guess this thing is a little ratty," she said. "I could stand to spiff up my running wardrobe. What do you suggest?"
Mom didn't know it, but she was not making it easy on me by talking about her clothing while standing in the sweaty running shorts and shirt.
"I don't know, mom," I said. "The running store nearby has everything. You should get something synthetic, though -- not cotton. A technical shirt, or a tank top, or a jog bra."
"Yeah," she said. "I don't think this 40-year-old body is going running in just a jog bra. That might be a little much."
"I've seen Judy Havens, Alex's mom, running in just a jog bra," I said. "She's older than you are, and nowhere near as good looking."
"Judy? Really? I haven't seen that. I'm surprised. Wouldn't you be embarrassed to see me running around in just a bra?"
"Embarrassed? No," I said. "I see that all the time. It's no big deal. You could pull it off a lot better than most women. But whatever. It's up to you."
I found the image in my mind of my mom running in tiny shorts and a running bra extremely compelling, but I didn't want to act like it in front of her. That would be too strange.
"Well, thank you, I guess," mom said. "I'll run over to the store sometime over the next few days and get something."
She finished her water and set it down.
"Now it's shower time," she said.
Thinking about mom in a jog bra reminded me that I needed a shower, too. I headed off to the bathroom on my end of the house, while mom headed off to hers.
Standing under the hot water streaming over my body a few minutes later, I couldn't stop thinking about my mom in the kitchen, in her skimpy outfit and pert, erect nipples visible under the old shirt. I had never thought of my mom this way before, but now I couldn't stop. Mom was hot. I couldn't deny it. Those legs, lean and supple, and the way her calf muscle popped into relief when she stretched her legs and pointed her toes. The firm perkiness of her breasts under the tight, raggedy tee shirt.
I lathered my body with soap, and I ran my hand with the soap bar down between my legs to
wash off there. I ran my hand up and down my cock to wash it and the image of my mom in the jog bra popped up again. My cock thickened suddenly and noticeably and I ran my hand up and down its length a few more times, my mind focused on the picture of my bra-clad mom.
I became aware of what I was doing and stopped.
No, I thought. I am not going to jerk off to thoughts of my mom. I am not going to do that. That's going too far. I've got to set some boundaries over this.
With that admonition in mind I hurried up and finished my shower, got out, and toweled off. I looked around the bathroom. I had forgotten to bring a change of clothes to put on. Worse, I knew there was nothing in my room because mom had just done the laundry and hadn't put it away yet.
I wrapped the towel around my waist. The laundry room was near the kitchen, so I padded along the floor in my bare feet to retrieve something to wear.
I passed by the kitchen, and mom already was there. She was wearing gray cotton shorts and a long sleeve, gray cotton top with a big scoop neck over what looked like a white tank top. She was in her bare feet, too. She had a clutch of pasta noodles in her hand and already was busy making dinner. She looked up from her task at me and smiled.
I was aware I was standing in front of my mom, naked but for a bath towel. I'm not conceited about my looks, but I'm not shy about my body, either. I'd been in a towel in front of my mom before, and it was not a big deal. But with all the new thoughts this afternoon about my mom being hot, it suddenly felt different being exposed this way. It never had occurred to me to think about how I looked to my mom undressed. But it did now. I had looked at her as a woman, and I wondered how she looked at me as a young man. The towel was low on my waist and showed off my lean torso, and my well-defined abdominal muscles. I didn't have big biceps or triceps, but my shoulders were broad. I didn't have a lot of body hair, so I knew my smooth, lean, hard chest was exposed to her. I wondered what I looked like to her.
"Looking for something to wear?" she asked me. Her eyes strayed from mine to my bare chest, and back.
"Yeah, sorry, just headed for the laundry room," I said.
"No apology necessary," she said with a grin.
I scurried off to the laundry room and fished some long shorts and a t-shirt out of dryer. For some reason, I decided to skip the underwear. I pulled the warm clothes on quickly, dropped the damp towel in a hamper, and headed back to the kitchen.
Mom and I chatted more about my classes. I hadn't settled on a major -- I had no idea what I was going to do after college -- and, so far, my class choices had no rhyme or reason to them: econ, computer science, art history, to name a few. I sensed that mom was, gently, trying to encourage me to focus on what I was going to do with my life. She didn't make any headway that evening.
When the pasta was cooked we sat down at the table to eat dinner and a salad I helped her make, and mom pulled out a bottle of red wine. I wasn't much of a wine drinker, but she assured me it was something good -- a pinot noir -- so I took a glass and drank it with dinner.
After dinner, I helped mom clear the table and put the dishes in the sink. Once that was done, mom picked up the wine bottle, which still was about half full, and the two drained wine glasses.
"Randy, let's sit in the living room and chat," she said.
"Sounds good to me, mom," I said.
We sat together on a spacious, comfy sofa in the living room, mom at one end, and me about two-thirds of the way toward the other end. Mom put her back against the arm of the sofa and stretched her legs out toward me. I could not help but check out her outstretched legs in the little gray shorts. The other thing I noticed about the shorts was that, although they weren't long, they were somewhat loose, and the holes of the legs fit her legs loosely. A broad expanse of the smooth skin of her upper thigh lay visible under the shorts. One leg was bent up, while the other was bent and lay on the sofa, with her foot curled under the other leg.
She poured wine into our glasses and set the bottle down on the side table behind her. She clinked her glass against mine and said "Cheers." I said "Cheers" in reply.
"So, Randy, I haven't heard about your love life lately. Anything going on in that department?"
Being quizzed about girls by my mother wasn't the most comfortable way to begin a conversation, but it wasn't something we'd talked about for a while. It was fair for her to ask.
"Not much going on. The semester just started. I've been to a couple of parties but haven't met anyone."
I had dated a girl at my school named Tilly during the summer, but we'd broken a few weeks before the fall semester started. I'd hooked up with another girl after a party right after school started, but I didn't really want to talk to my mom about that.
"I'm not really in a hurry right now. It will happen when it happens," I said. "What about you, mom? When are you going to start dating?"
"I'm surprised you ask," she said. "Are you OK with me starting to date?"
"Of course, mom. I want you to be happy. Dad's been seeing what's her name since you two broke up. It's only fair you get to have some fun too."
The truth was, it would be strange to see my mom dating someone, but it had been over a year since the breakup, and I hated to see mom be lonely.
Mom didn't reply to me right away. She looked at me, her eyes still and barely blinking, appraising me in some way or for something; I couldn't tell what.
"What is it?" I asked.
"You don't act 19," she said. "You don't seem 19 to me. You've never seemed like your age." She looked off to the side, her eyes focused somewhere, far away.
"I remember taking you to the playground when you were five years old. You'd play with the other kids. I didn't have to worry about that. But the thing I remember is that you'd walk up to the other adults sitting on the benches watching their kids, and you'd start talking to them. You'd charm them. You'd carry on long conversations with them, even as a little kid. You were a little adult, even then. And now you are a real adult, and you seem a lot older than you are. I look at you and I don't see a 19-year old."
She was quiet for half a minute and we both sipped our wine.
"I've thought about dating. I've kept myself busy with work, and with you, and working out, so until now I haven't thought about it much. But I think I'm ready. I even checked out an online dating site. I realized I don't have any good recent photos of myself to set up a profile."
"I could help you with that, mom. I know how to use a camera," I said.
"Yes, I know. You're quite handy with that, like with a lot of things."
She beamed a big smile at me, and then she noticed that her glass and mine were empty again.
"Time for a refill," she said. She twisted her torso to the side and stretched back to grab the wine bottle behind her head. And I just couldn't help but run my eyes up and down the smooth thigh stretched out closest to me -- the long expanse of unblemished, lightly-tanned, supple skin. My eyes kept following the curve of her leg to her inner thigh, where it disappeared under the loose-fitting cotton shorts.
Only, it didn't completely disappear. The shorts were loose and the leg hole had popped open. And that's when I saw it.
My god, I thought. Mom isn't wearing panties.
My view extended all the way to the skin between her legs. I actually caught a glimpse of well-trimmed dark blonde hair. The pussy itself was just out of view.
And then mom reached back just a little more, to get the wine bottle. The opening in the shorts grew a little wider -- just enough to see a puff of pussy lip, and beyond that a brief but glorious glimpse at the shy slit of her pussy.
I was looking at my mom's pussy.
It was just a glimpse. It lasted no more than a second, because it took little more than that for her to grab the wine bottle and start turning back to me. But the sight of it was burned into my brain. My mom's pussy. I'd never seen it before. We weren't a prudish family, but we weren't nudists, either. I'd never seen my mom naked. Now, I had seen her pussy. I could never un-see it. Nor would I want to.
I felt a sharp stiffening under my shorts immediately. Right away, I regretted not wearing underwear. I was aroused, instantly, and it would be difficult to conceal the fact.
I'd been sitting with my feet on the sofa toward mom. I brought my legs up and bent them to hide what I knew, very soon, would be a raging erection.
"You all right?" mom asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I think my, uh, foot fell asleep."
"Well, here, let me have your glass." Mom poured the rest of the contents of the bottle into our glasses.
Mom took a few sips in quiet and then looked at me again.
"So, you think I should try the online dating thing?" she asked.
To be honest, I had mixed feelings about that. I did want mom to be happy, and I knew that eventually she would want another man in her life. I knew also that because she was beautiful and charming she would have plenty of options. But I had enjoyed having mom to myself. I had a hard time imagining a man who would be good enough for her. It was a strange feeling, coming from a son, but I felt a twinge of jealousy at the idea of her being with other men. But I wasn't going to say that to her. I wanted to be supportive.
"I think you should give it a try," I said. "You'll have no problem finding men to date."
"That's what I worry about," she said. "From what I've heard, most of the really eligible men on these sites are looking for women a lot younger. Like your dad. I'm not really looking forward to that. I want to dad somebody my age, not somebody who's sixty."
"Mom, I don't think you are going to have a problem. You don't look like a normal 40-year-old. You're beautiful. You keep yourself in great shape and look really young. Even my friends say so."
"Well, that's sweet of you. It's nice to hear. After the divorce and your father leaving me -- it was hard. Hard on my self-confidence. My self-image. I've sometimes felt over-the-hill at the age of 40. It's not a good feeling."
"You sure as hell don't have to worry about that, mom. You're anything but over the hill. "
"Thanks," she said. She cracked a little smile. "That's funny what you said about your friends. I always knew Tucker had a little crush on me. He was always tongue tied when I was around. It was very cute."
"Yeah, he thought you were more than a little cute. He always said you were 'hot.' It got kind of annoying. Not that you weren't," I added quickly. "It just was annoying to have a friend talk that way about my mom."
"I know what you mean," she said. "I seem to remember overhearing him say that once. It was sweet. And flattering."
"You're very pretty, mom," I said. "If you set up a dating profile right you'll have no problem getting eligible men interested. I can help you by taking some nice photos of you."
"I accept your offer, Randy. Thanks."
I got an idea.
"I'll take a photo of you right now," I said, reaching for my phone, lying on the sofa behind me.
"No, Randy, I haven't prepared for it. I don't even have makeup on."
"You don't need it, mom. You look great. And this lighting actually is pretty good."
It was. It was nighttime, but the room was well lit, and the camera on the phone was good enough that it would take a good photo in moderate, indoor lighting without too much graininess showing up in the resulting photographs.
"OK, then," she said. "How should I pose?"
I took charge. I enjoyed my mom asking me to tell her what to do.
"Sit up straight. Put your arm on the back of the sofa. Shoulders back. Like that. Try a couple of different positions with your legs. Point your toes."
One of my classes the previous year had been a photography class, and I had gotten some experience photographing models, so I was familiar with at least the rudiments of posing, and of directing.
I had mom assume several different positions and took photos of her. I didn't want her to try to look sexy, because that wasn't the right sort of look for an online profile. I was focusing on her face. Mom had a beautiful smile, with white even teeth, and her eyes lit up when she smiled, as well. But even as I focused on her face, and tried to get a good portrait shot, I couldn't help but notice her lithe figure in the gray shorts and top. It occurred to me as well, for the first time that evening -- I didn't think she was wearing a bra. I wasn't certain, because she was wearing both a tank top and a long sleeve top over that, but I didn't see a hint of a bra strap, and there was something about the natural slope and curve of her breasts under the top that suggested she had no artificial support.
She doesn't need it, I thought to myself.
A few more snaps and I was done.
I was having a great time with mom, and I never had felt this way in her presence before -- so aware of her as a woman, and not just as mom. It was thrilling, and arousing. I was aware that I still had a hard-on, and I had gotten careless about trying to hide it. I thought that by now she must have noticed it, but if she had she wasn't giving anything away.
She patted me on the knee.
"I'm going to clean up," she said. She stood up and took my empty wine glass and walked to the kitchen.
"I'll help," I said.
"No, I'll do it. You probably have school work to do."
Actually, I didn't. I was pretty good about getting homework done quickly, and I'd finished it quickly at school after my last class was done.
At the moment, it was hard to think about homework, because when mom had gotten up and walked to the kitchen I'd been given a nice view of her pert ass in the gray shorts, and all I could think about was the absence of panties under them, and the lack of any panty line. Mom's ass was perfect -- firm, round, and sculpted. I knew she did squats and other exercises at the gym to keep it in shape, and whatever she did, it worked.
The sight didn't help my hard on, though. If I stood up and followed her to the kitchen to help it would be impossible to hide the conspicuous tent under my shorts. I decided to take mom up on her offer and retreat to my room instead.
"Thanks for dinner, mom. I'm going to my room to get some work done. I'll process the photos for you, too."
I had partly turned myself around to hide my erection as I talked. Mom turned back to me, and I'm not sure if I successfully hid my hard-on, or not.
"It was nice to chat with you, Randy. I appreciate your support. Love you."
"Love you, too, mom."
I walked the rest of the way to my room, my erection straining against my shorts.
I shut my bedroom door behind me and walked to my desk. I sat down with the computer screen in front of me. I unzipped my shorts, and my cock popped up and out, standing up straight. It was a relief not to have it straining against the shorts anymore.
The computer already was turned on. I connected the phone to the computer with a USB cable and downloaded the photos. I scrolled through them.
The first one was the one I'd taken of us during our run, which turned out well. Then I saw the one I took of just her, on the hill, in the glow of sunset. She looked beautiful, like a model.
I scrolled further, through the photos I'd taken of her on the sofa. I was glad to see they'd turned out well. The light had been good enough, and her face was lit up with a beautiful smile. Several of them would be good enough to get a good dating site portrait shot.
I scrolled a little more, and then I stopped.
I hadn't planned to take any sexy photos of mom on the sofa, and I hadn't directed her to pose provocatively. But I had taken a photo of her when she had been shifting from one position to the other. In this photo, she was sitting up, with one leg bent up and pressed against the back of the sofa, and the other leg bent and lying against the sofa seat. Her legs were spread open in this photo, and the angle stretched the shorts open, just as before -- but even more so.
The shorts were spread open wide enough that mom's pussy was on display in the photo.
I had no idea I had done it at the time, but I had taken a photograph of my mother's pussy.
I could see the dark blond fuzz. The curtain matched the drapes.
I could see smooth outer lips, and inside them the thinner inner lips, pressed lightly together. The inviting vertical slit lay between them. I looked more closely, and I could swear that at one place in the dark slit, the lips parted a little, and there was just a glint of a pale color, where light from behind me must have reflected off moisture inside her.
If my cock had been hard before, it was like a rocket ship on the launch pad now, primed and ready for takeoff. My hand flew to it and seized it. I had stopped stroking myself to thoughts of mom in the shower earlier in the evening, but there was no way I could stop this time. I didn't care if it was wrong.
I thought about grabbing some lotion to help the process, but I didn't want to get up and take my eyes off mom's image. And, I didn't need it. Already, a dollop of precum lay over the hole at the top of my cock. With two more quick up and down strokes I milked more precum from my cock, and the resulting milky flow was enough to lubricate my length to do the job. I knew it wasn't going to take long, anyway.
I've gotten good at controlling how fast I come, and I haven't gotten a lot of complaints about coming too quickly, but I knew I was going to come fast this time. The sight of my beautiful mother smiling at me with those shining eyes, and her legs spread wide apart and her pussy fully on display for me, was too much for me to hold back.
I pumped away furiously, eyes transfixed on the picture before me, my thoughts a jumble of lust and desire. The dam had broken. I'd never thought of my mom as hot before this day, and now I didn't think I'd ever be able to look at her any other way.
God, you're so hot, mom, I thought. Your pussy, mom. Your hot pussy. Your wet cunt. Spread and on display for me. I love you, mom. You and your hot, wet, open pussy. You like that, don't you? Showing off your gaping, steaming fuck hole to your son, stroking his cock for you? You want me to come for you, don't you? Come on you? I'm going to do it, mom. I'm going to come for you and your wet pussy.
I felt just a twinge of guilt letting myself indulge these thoughts about my mom. My sweet mom. My loving mom. The woman who had given birth to me, raised me, cared for me. Now I was staring at her pussy and jerking off to her like she was a Hustler model. Yes, I can say that in that moment I felt guilty. A little bit. But not too much. Not enough to stop. In truth, I loved it. I loved the sight of my mom spread that way. I couldn't get enough of it.
My hand pumped up and down fast. I pulled hard on the upstroke, to draw my cock out and extend it as far as I could. I wanted to feel it getting longer for my mom, as long as I could make it. My hard, long cock, jerked rapidly by my fast-moving hand and getting close to climax, was my salute to my hot, spread-open mom.
Before I knew what was happening my cock pulsed twice and a thick spray of white goopy cum erupted from my cock tip. I had never seen so much cum spurt from my cock before. It went everywhere -- my hand, my shorts, even my shirt, and my desk. It even splattered right on the computer monitor, directly on the image of my mom on the sofa.
I sat there for about a minute, not moving, staring at the image of my mom and my handiwork. It was a mess.
A knock came at the door.
"Randy?" mom called.
I panicked. Had I locked the door? I couldn't let mom come in and see what I was doing. Or see the photo of herself.
Thank goodness, she didn't come in after the knock.
"I'm getting changed, mom," I called out. My voice was shaking, and I hoped she didn't hear it. "Can you wait a sec?"
"No need to come out. I just wanted to say good night. I'm going to bed early. Good night!"
"Good night, mom."
The emergency was averted. My heart was racing. What if mom had opened the door and come in? I didn't want to think about it.
I hadn't moved. I was still sitting on the chair with my cock in my hand and the cum-splattered photo of my mom on the screen.
What a weird day, I thought.
All I could think about was my mom.
My mom is a hot mom, I thought. Holy shit, she is hot.
At that point, my still-hard cock in my hand and my cum sprayed all over and dripping down the high-resolution image of my mom blown up on my computer monitor screen, I had no idea where all this was going to go. I watched a drop of cum dribble down the screen and stop right over the exposed junction between her legs in the image. It obscured my view of mom's pussy.
I wasn't thinking with perfect clarity, but I knew one thing.
I wanted to see it again.
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